The Hollow Men: A Story in Three Parts
by The Drowned World
Summary: As the bullying goes too far, Kurt's entire world is thrown into question when he begins to hallucinate a spiritual stalker. But is it a hallucination, or is Kurt caught up in something bigger – and is Blaine connected? AU for the KlaineBigBang. Complete.
1. Story Guide and General Information

_GLEE_

_The Hollow Men _—

**Story Guide and Information Sheet**

**Title:** _The Hollow Men – A Story in Three Parts_

**Author:** The Drowned World (Phoenix | Goddess (pfenix_goddess))

**Universe:** _Glee_

**Rating:** _**T**_ (or _**PG-13**_) for some language, violence, dark themes, slight sexuality, horror

**Genre:** Supernatural, romance, horror

**Plot Summary:** As the bullying at WMHS goes too far, Kurt's entire world is thrown into question when he begins to hallucinate a spiritual stalker. But is it a hallucination, or is Kurt caught up in something beyond this world – and how is Blaine connected? Will Kurt be strong enough to face what's coming?

**Major Characters:** Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Quinn Fabray, Leomaris (OC)

**Minor Characters:** Burt Hummel, William Schuester, Sue Sylvester, Dr. Shane, Karofsky and Azimio and the Jocks, Finn Hudson, Mercedes Jones and the WMHS New Directions (Rachel Berry, Tina Cohen-Chang, etc.), the Dalton Academy Warblers (Wes, David, Luke, etc.)

**Warnings:** Dubious/non-consent (but not too extreme); use of homophobic and racial slurs/bullying (verbal/physical/psychological); suicidal thoughts; supernatural; horror; **character death**

**Timeline:** AU retelling of "Never Been Kissed"; spoilers through parts of "The Substitute", "Furt", "Special Education", "A Very Glee Christmas"

**Beta:** Jessica (Pandora's5thBox), who put her foot down on my rampant comma use, demanded words when I didn't deliver, acted as my cheerleader, caught my mistakes, and was generally awesome.

**Artist:**aoleander, who provided vital feedback before I sent out my story alongside giving me some absolutely _gorgeous_ artwork for my story, which was a completely new experience for me, and to who I owe many thanks. For those of you finding this on FanFiction, to view the links to the artwork please visit aoleander (dot) livejournal (dot) com, and then enter / "1858" (dot) html - only, of course, remove the quotations, spaces, and (dots) in order to view the pictures.

**Final Word Count:** _Part I = 20,140; Part II = 25,929; Part III = 27,176_

**Completion Date:** 14 August 2011 — Complete Word Count: 73,245

**The Klaine Big-Bang Challenge – 15,000 Words in Six Months**

This story is my entry into the LiveJournal contest "The Klaine Big Bang Challenge", which pretty much demands at least 15,000 words done by 15 August 2011. This is the first time I've ever entered into a fiction contest with things like rules and deadlines and suchlike, so I've actually had quite a bit of fun with this. This is a plot idea I've had ever since watching "Never Been Kissed", actually, so this coupled with some things going on in my life right now were just the perfect excuses to go ahead and _do it_.

**WARNINGS:** (There will be a few of these, so I'll bold them.)

**Darkness Ahead**: While there is definite conflict resolution for this story, it's going to be a dark and painful road to get there. There are issues of dubious consent, physical/verbal/emotional abuse, and everything in-between. I'm drawing on my own personal experiences of bullying for this story, so I'm throwing this out there right now: _**there are possible triggers littered throughout this story**_. Also, while there isn't any faerie-tale "Harry Potter" magic featured in this story, it is supernatural, it does contain elements of witchcraft and some elements of 'folk magic' folklore, both haunting and possession. Also, there is **character death** in this story; if I say more now I'll spoil the ending.

**Spoiler Alert:** I'm only going to say this once – you need to have watched the first half of season two. This story will go wildly into AU-territory in the vague space between "Never Been Kissed" and "Furt" (with "The Substitute" being largely ignored for sake of time, space, and the fact that Holly Holiday is too happy to appear in this), but there are spoilers up through "A Very Glee Christmas", so watch out.

**Episode Re-write:** This story begins directly in "Never Been Kissed", and although it goes very AU and is definitely my own story, there are parts of that episode and a very small amount of that episode's dialogue featured; "Never Been Kissed" is obviously highly copyrighted by FOX and by RIB, and the episode itself was written by Brad Falchuk.

**Feedback and Reviews:** As you will no doubt notice, this is being hosted on . My account allows for anonymous reviews, so if you do not wish to leave a review on LJ, you can leave any and all feedback at ; I thrive off of feedback good or bad, and I would really love to hear what you think.

**The Music:** I cannot write without music, and there are some songs that are performed within this story, are featured in the introductions, and that I just can't imagine the scenes being played without. That being said, I've compiled a soundtrack album for each part of _The Hollow Men_. The tracks are as follows:

**Part I — Les Fleurs du Mal:**

_Gothica – Sarah Brightman_

_Fleurs du Mal – Sarah Brightman_

_Simple and Clean [PLANITb Remix] {Short Edit} – Utada Hikaru_

_Gone – Madonna_

_I Feel Pretty / Unpretty – Glee Cast_

_Be Careful (Cuidado con mi Corazón) – Madonna and Ricky Martin_

_Hearing Damage – Thom Yorke _

_Dear God – Sarah McLachlan_

_Back to Black – Amy Winehouse_

_St John – We Are the Fallen_

_The Harold Song – Ke$ha_

_4 Minutes – Glee Cast_

_Marry the Night – Lady Gaga_

_Wonderland – Natalia Kills_

_Teenage Dream – Glee Cast_

_Boulevard of Broken Dreams – Original Broadway Cast of "American Idiot"_

_Skin – Madonna_

_Inside Out – Emmy Rossum_

_Farther Away – Evanescence_

_The Car Chase (from "A Beautiful Mind") – James Horner_

_Smells Like Teen Spirit – Tori Amos_

_Cut – Plumb_

**Part II – Wandering Child**

_New Moon (from "New Moon") – Alexandre Desplat_

_Wandering Child – Emmy Rossum and Gerard Butler_

_Twisted Every Way – Emmy Rossum and Film Cast of "Phantom of the Opera"_

_Drowned World / Substitute for Love – Madonna_

_Swim – Madonna_

_Possession – Sarah McLachlan_

_Breakin' at the Cracks – Colbie Caillat_

_Bad Girl – Madonna_

_What You Want – Evanescence_

_Meet Me on the Equinox – Death Cab for Cutie_

_The World Is Not Enough – Garbage_

_Die for You – Megan McCauley_

_Animal [Billboard Remix] – Ke$ha_

_Dance in the Dark – Lady Gaga_

_All Around Me – Flyleaf_

_The Wolf (from "Red Riding Hood") – Fever Ray_

_Monster – Lady Gaga_

_Her Name Is Alice – Shinedown_

_Your Own Disaster – Taking Back Sunday_

_Breathe No More – Evanescence_

_Green Finch and Linnet Bird – Original Film Cast of "Sweeney Todd"_

_Paradise (Not for Me) – Madonna_

**Part III — Mer Girl**

_Mer Girl – Madonna_

_Heavy in Your Arms – Florence + The Machine_

_O Children – Nick Cave + The Bad Seeds_

_Baby, It's Cold Outside – Glee Cast_

_See Through – Megan McCauley_

_Don't Cry for Me Argentina (Kurt's Solo) – Glee Cast_

_The Dog Days Are Over – Glee Cast_

_One Day I'll Fly Away – Nicole Kidman_

_Merman – Tori Amos_

_Frozen – Madonna_

_Taste – Lorna Vallings_

_Miles Away – Madonna_

_Reverie – Megan McCauley_

_Bound to You – Christina Aguilera_

_No, I Don't Remember – Anna Ternheim_

_Journey to the Cemetery / Little Lotte – Emmy Rossum_

_Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again – Emmy Rossum_

_Lux Aeterna – Clint Mansell_

_Perfection – Clint Mansell_

_Simple and Clean – Utada Hikaru_

_She Floats – Vanessa Carlton_

_Remains – Maurissa Tancharoen and Jed Whedon_

_Defying Gravity (Kurt's Solo) – Glee Cast_


	2. Part I: Les Fleurs du Mal

Glee

_The Hollow Men, Part I_

_(Les Fleurs du Mal)_

_This is the way the world ends:_

_Not with a bang but with a whimper._

—from "The Hollow Men" by T. S. Elliot

_All my life, I've been waiting for_

_In this perfume of pain_

_To forget when I needed more_

_Of Love's endless refrain_

_We live, and we pray_

_Pour les fleurs du mal_

_I've lost my way_

_What is done will return again—_

_Will I ever be free?_

_(Les fleurs du mal unfold)_

_Comme les fleurs du mal_

_(Dark demons of my soul)_

_Un amour fatale_

—from "Fleurs du Mal" by Sarah Brightman

(_Symphony_, 2008)

"_Surely there is a handful of nursery märchen that start, 'Once in the middle of the forest lived an old witch', or, 'The devil was out walking one day and met a child'…To the grim poor there need be no _pour quoi_ tale about where evil arises; it just arises: it always _is_. One never learns how the witch became wicked, or whether that was the right choice for her—is it ever the right choice? Does the devil ever struggle to be good again? Or if so, is he not a devil?"_

—from _Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West_ by Gregory Maguire

"As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are the worst for them."

—from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ by J. K. Rowling

**Prelude.**

_Don't get me wrong—I love you_

_But does that mean I have to walk on water?_

_One day when you're older you'll understand_

_It's enough when I said "No—_

_I don't think life is quite that simple"_

_When you walk away_

_You don't hear me say_

_Please, oh baby, don't go_

_Simple and clean is the way that you're making me feel tonight_

_It's hard to let it go_

—from "Simple and Clean [PLANITb Remix] {Short Edit}" by Utada Hikaru

The entire world was spinning through flames, small dots of fire like the Big Bang in miniature – an entire life speeding by, too fast for him to hold onto. The scent of blood in the air was acrid and sharp, the copper slicing through him surer than any knife. The flames burst like stars when he probed them, each one a window into a life – a memory, fragile as a flower and just as quickly dead.

When he found the one he was looking for, he sank down next to the body and felt the warmth envelope him, no longer sure if he felt tears, sweat, or blood falling on his cheek. None of the three would wash away for a long, long time.

Hugging his knees closer to himself, he watched the story unfold and prayed with everything he had that it had been different – but how could it have been different, when he was so willing to sacrifice everything? What could either of them have possibly done? The memory was enveloping him to a past that he wished he had never lived.

**Prologue.**

**1348—England**

_Her feet are still burnt with the ashes of her former life – a fitting vengeance it had seemed at the time, but now the price was too high. She can't stop a hysterical laugh ripping its way from her throat, from the very core of her being. How selfish – the blood of how many lingered on her hands? And yet here she runs, frantic, through the woods of the dark hills, a phantom howling behind her. She had broken her promise, but He came in the end. He always came when she called to Him._

_But what had she, a simple girl, known of the ways of darkness? How could she have known? She runs and runs and runs, for she knows that if she cannot get away her curse is fated to linger. He will not be satisfied with just her life. He will not be satisfied to stop with her. She runs and runs, and she knows that she is not fast enough._

_One last ember drifts behind her to curl like a daemonic snowflake upon the dead leaves._

**2002—Lima, Ohio**

_The day that Kurt Hummel watched his mother's casket dropped ceremoniously under a mound of dirt was the day that he stopped believing in things that he couldn't see. His mother had used to tell him faerie tales and tea party stories, singing songs and performing strange tricks that at the time had seemed like magic. Much later, when Kurt will think of his mother, he will hold the oddest impression of a woman floating on air, flower petals dancing through her hair, whispering secrets to the weeping willow in their backyard._

"_Ashes to ashes and dust to dust," the preacher intoned, managing to sound both bored and sorry about the proceedings. Kurt longed to find his mother's favourite, glossy black pump and give the man a good whack with it, just once. His mother, his _life_ was being buried in the _ground_; couldn't this man who said he knew God even bring himself to _care_?_

_As the Hummel family got ready to leave the cemetery so the gravediggers could do their work, Kurt caught his finger on one of the blood red roses they were carrying with them from the funeral ceremony. He sucked his thumb into his mouth and winced at the warm, coppery taste. The oddest feeling came over him – not so much that he was being watched but being _seen_ for the very first time – but he dismissed the notion angrily. Magic hadn't helped to save his mother, and neither had God._

_The first shovel full of earth impacted Elizabeth Hummel's casket as Kurt turned his back on both._

**2007—Bruntsville, South Carolina**

_Blaine Anderson touched the swelling black eye and winced at the pain and the memories behind it – what felt like hundreds of nameless faces, twisted and distorted with hatred, all leering at him as he was punched and kicked and spit on. Every breath burnt like fire from that last kick to the ribs. It still didn't hurt as much as the exasperated look on the principal's face when Blaine had tried to complain for what felt like the hundredth time. It didn't matter – _Blaine_ didn't matter. He was a faggot; what the hell did anyone in this tiny town care?_

_Downstairs, his parents were yelling at each other again. It sounded like his mom was winning. Blaine sighed. His mother didn't understand and she didn't pretend to; she just loved him and she tried. His father had made his opinions perfectly clear._

_Blaine's fingers clenched the sink in a death grip as a phantom breeze ghosted underneath the door. "God, please, stop. Please go away," he whispered, trembling, as what felt like dozens of hands caressed the bruises on his back._

'_Blaine,' whispered the voice, the voice that was always there, watching his every move… 'You know what happened was your fault, don't you?' asked the voice. It was so silky smooth and hypnotic, whispering into his ear like Christine Daaé's Angel of Music. 'You know those boys wouldn't have gone after you if you hadn't have fallen for Troy, don't you? Now your parents are screaming again, Blaine; they are screaming because of you.'_

"_I know," Blaine whimpered._

'_You do know,' He said. 'You've always known that it would come to this.' The hands left his back and trailed like a lover's touch over his arms, then twitching the razor blade on the sink mockingly back and forth like a metronome. Blaine's skin crawled, half with revulsion and half with a longing so dark and terrible it took his breath away. For just a moment, he fancied a man standing behind him, tall and unearthly and beautiful but with eyes as black as a doll's. How many times in the past months had he seen those eyes, heard that voice? It would never be over, and he was so very _tired_…_

'_Pick up the blade, Blaine, and I promise that you will sleep at last, my love…'_

_The tear that fell on Blaine's cheek wasn't as hot as the blood dripping from his wrist, nor did it stain the white porcelain floor a garish red – but to Blaine, it held all the more power._

**Part I.**

_2010—Lima, Ohio_

_I won't fall apart_

_Dream away your life  
>Dream away your dream<br>Nothing equals nothing_

_Turn to stone  
>Lose my faith<br>I'll be gone  
>Before it happens…<em>

—"Gone" by Madonna (_Music_, 2000)

_**Before**_

Mr. Schuester was painfully obvious when he wasn't trying to be. Honestly, Quinn didn't have the first clue who the hell the man thought he was trying to fool when each and every one of his thrilling new 'assignments' only struck him after walking out of Ms. Pillsbury's office. By the time he was trying to sell them on doing _Rocky Horror_, Quinn had already tuned out – honestly, it was a fun movie and it had been a good night that summer watching it in Kurt's basement with Mercedes and Tina, but Rachel had already declared herself and Finn the leads and Mr. Schue had acquiesced without even a token protest, so there wasn't much she was going to be required to do, Quinn was sure.

As Mr. Schuester handed her a doubled-up Magenta, Quinn rolled her eyes and turned back to Sam, his brow furrowed sweetly as he stumbled through her carefully written history notes. His dyslexia had turned his class notes into a jumbled mess (a problem compounded, she'd told him severely, by the fact that his _serious_ problem was with doodling when he should be paying attention) and she was getting used to helping him through his homework. To be honest, it was one of the easier parts of her afternoon and it certainly gave them an excuse to hang out outside of her house.

Quinn's mouth tightened but she grinned when Mr. Schuester handed Kurt the role of Dr. Frank-N-Furter – at least he would _finally_ get a lead role.

"No," Kurt said clearly, and Quinn knew she wasn't the only one staring. Seeing Mr. Schuester's flummoxed expression, Kurt's eyes slanted and his face went to stone like it only did when he was truly upset and trying to hide it. "I'm _not_ dressing like a transvestite, Mr. Schuester – I'm not wearing some leather corset and makeup and high heels," he elucidated exasperatedly.

"Why? Because that look was _last_ season?" Santana called out snidely, and the entire group erupted into giggles. Quinn stared in shock as Mr. Schuester said nothing and she turned in her seat to shoot Santana a murderous glare. Santana shrugged and Mercedes at least had the grace to look ashamed as she stifled her giggles in her jacket. Couldn't they _see_ how upset Kurt was? Quinn turned in time to catch Kurt's face settling into a solid mask of ice, and it took her a moment to figure out why she was so upset until she realised that he was wearing the same expression he wore when the jocks went after him in the halls. She hadn't seen him wear it in glee club before, and it made her heart twist painfully – but she was only one person. When Mr. Schuester ignored it happening right in front of him, what could _she_ do?

When she carpooled with Tina that night so they could try out some moves from "The Time Warp," Quinn tried as hard as she could to get Kurt to smile, but his eyes were shadowed and hidden from her. His face was a mask of ennui as he twisted and turned even though dancing usually gave him joy.

Considering how everything turned out in the end, the dead look in Kurt's eyes that night would haunt Quinn for a very, very long time.

Kurt was really starting to get on Mercedes' last nerve, and that wasn't something that she was ready to handle.

They'd been besties for what felt like forever, but Kurt had been getting…_weird_, like detached, and he wasn't paying _her_ any attention. Of _course_ she'd not invited him to a couple of mall trips – any time they went out he would just want to talk about the jocks. She'd been slushied before; she _knew_ how much they sucked. It wasn't like he had to live in the damn ice cups all the friggin' time. Mercedes turned from her locker and regarded Kurt fairly calmly.

"What did you just say to me?" The boy needed to know he was _not_ in good territory right now, seriously.

"I said, why didn't you stick up for me when Santana made that crack today? Or any other day, for that matter? Don't I stick it up for you when she comes after _you_ with her bitch claws?" His eyes were watering up, it looked like. Mercedes was determined to stay calm. She thought of all the times her brother would whine to her and steeled herself.

"Look, Kurt, it was just a joke, okay? And Santana isn't really that bad once you actually get to know her a little, which you've never really made the effort to. And you've been really unhappy with everything lately, which I don't get. Maybe if you just stopped throwing yourself a pity party you'd start having some fun again," she suggested.

"Oh," Kurt said. It came out a bit smaller than what she was used to, but Mercedes knew firsthand that people didn't really like being told about themselves. It was the truth, too – school sucked for everyone, and sure, Kurt got some dumpster dives on top of the slushies but it was nothing he'd never picked himself up from before.

"Now, I'm heading to the mall in Dayton with Tina on Saturday; you wanna come with?" she said reluctantly. It was kind of the least she could do after smacking him down; it wasn't like she was really _pissed_ at him or anything.

"No, I think I'll be alright – give my dad's credit card a break, you know?" Kurt said lightly. He wanted space; she got that.

"Cool then. Maybe later we should plan a _Rocky Horror_ night and throw popcorn whenever Janet comes on; and damn but we're gonna have to supply Rachel with underwear for those scenes 'cuz _God_ knows I _ain't_ going to be seeing her in granny panties up on that stage," she chattered easily, turning away.

Later, when she really thought about it, Mercedes remembered something dying in Kurt's eyes that day. She didn't think about it often, if she could help it. It hurt too much.

_**Now**_

All in all, Kurt thought, it had been a bad day.

When he'd heard that Puck was back and firmly on probation, he hadn't been able to stomp on the little snake of hope growing in his chest – after all, reputation stain'd or not, Puck was still the ringleader of the worst bullies at McKinley and if he was strictly forbidden from doing anything to violate his parole, Kurt stood a chance of making it into the school under the radar. Pulling cautiously into a parking space that was about ten feet down from his usual place, he threw the car in lock and slung his bag over the shoulder before he high-tailed it toward the front steps. He passed Puck, ridiculous Mohawk firmly back in place and earrings that Kurt _in no way found attractive_ adorning his ears, and nothing happened other than the usual glaring at his gayness existing in Puck's personal space (this was about all Kurt could figure out that Puck would have a problem with him; after all, he'd personally never done anything to the other boy unless you counted turning him in for cheating on his math test in first grade when they'd been forced to sit next to each other.)

At the front steps of the school, Kurt brightened when he saw Quinn Fabray, head Cheerio and one of his best friends – safety by association with her mounting popularity. She turned her elegantly beautiful, golden blonde head toward him and started to wave, but when he caught the look on her face he tried desperately to quicken his steps before—

"Aw, thought you'd get away, didn't ya, fag?" Dave Karofsky spat, his big, mean face twisted in that look of absolute _loathing_ he always reserved specifically for Kurt. Kurt wondered if he should feel honoured at the attention from another boy. He spent a moment idly worrying about some of the more depressing (depraved, really) thoughts he'd been having lately as Karofsky's grip tightened so hard on his shoulder that his shoulder blade screamed in protest. More bruises, probably, so another trip to the mall for cover-up (_sans Mercedes this time, of course…_). "What's the matter, you goddamn fairy – couldn't fly away fast enough?" he jeered, irritated at Kurt's lack of response. Really, the way that Kurt had found himself spacing out on moments like this over the last few months, he was surprised that Karofsky cared that much about his response.

Shaking Kurt hard enough to rattle his teeth, the huge jock frogmarched him toward the dumpsters, and Kurt sighed as he shrugged out of Karofsky's grip and stripped off his overcoat, laying it gently on the ground and setting his bag down on top of it before lifting his arms up to be tossed. The strangest look crossed Karofsky's face, one that Kurt had never seen before, before his expression darkened more than Kurt had ever seen it. For just a moment, under the overwhelming numbness, Kurt felt a small bolt of panic – any change to the routine was usually a bad one for him. "You're so fucking pathetic you don't even _fight_ anymore, you worthless homo," Karofsky hissed. "You know you deserve this, right? You're _disgusting_. I bet you _get off_ on me touching you, don't you? _Don't you_!" Perhaps he wanted an answer. Kurt never really guessed; one second Karofsky was yelling and the next his hammy fist had slammed into Kurt's solar plexus harder than he'd felt in quite some time and he was gasping for air.

He flew through the air with a sickening, breathtaking speed and landed amongst the garbage with a resigned sigh as he regained the ability to breathe, though it pained him to do so. Kurt figured he'd have to adjust his breathing exercises tonight or it'd be harder for him to draw in enough breath to hold out his longer notes in glee. There was a group of laughter from outside and he sighed and banged his head against one of the softer, smellier bags; there was now a group of jocks outside and he'd have to wait longer to hoist himself out.

_Kurt_, he could practically hear them saying. _Faggot. Worthless. Should be dead_. It was almost like the words were bouncing around inside his skull, reverberating through his very being. It was a feeling like being invaded, like rape, and for reasons that Kurt couldn't fully sound out to himself it felt like one of his nightmares. He stared as what felt like a breeze but _wasn't_ seemed to shift itself amongst the bags, and he shivered violently before it seemed to vanish and he was left staring at the garbage around him.

Kurt blinked, drawing himself back to the world around him. He could worry about garbage-induced hallucinations later; something was happening outside.

"Go away! Go on, get the hell out of here!" someone was saying. Kurt frowned and hoisted himself up to look, blinking in something like surprise as Quinn sent the jocks on their way with a frown on her face.

"You shouldn't have done that," Kurt observed. Quinn turned to him and it took a moment for him to realise that she was _shocked_. "Spent so much of your political capitol on the resident gay, I mean. Santana will be after you even more after that."

"Kurt, you're my _friend_," Quinn said slowly, emphasising the last. "If that's what it takes, that's what it takes. For everyone in glee…well, except for maybe Rachel. After everything that all of you did for me, how could I just ignore something like that?"

Her words warmed him enough for him to not politely point out that she had once suggested he be tossed in the trash for daring to speak to her in middle school, thus inspiring a younger Noah Puckerman to begin the tradition of dumpster tossing (he really always had been a little in love with Quinn, and Kurt was surprised nearly every day that he was the only one of the gleeks in New Directions who _hadn't_ been surprised when the baby fallout had happened last year.) "Thank you, Quinn," he said, somewhat formally, though he smiled at her. "If you would grab my hand?" She held her hand out and he used it to finish picking his way out. He sighed when he caught sight of the huge footprint on his brown leather Prada shoulder bag.

"Do you need any help cleaning that off?" Quinn asked.

"Perhaps later," Kurt decided. "If we're any later to morning warm-ups in the gym, Sylvester will threaten to shave our heads. I'd rather avoid thinking about looking like Puck come tomorrow morning." Quinn's expression told him that she'd caught the very precise way that he worded things whenever he was really, physically hurting, but she thankfully refrained from saying anything.

It didn't help matters much on their lateness when Kurt walked in dripping in icy cold blue slushie, finishing ruining his outfit for the day. Thankfully, he'd stashed a spare in his gym locker. He had a feeling that the day was just going to get longer.

Kurt felt slightly uncomfortable at the knowing look that Sylvester gave him before declaring that he was so pathetic he needed to sit the practice out. If Kurt didn't know better, he'd think it was sympathy; but then, she was also screaming to the world about the unholy alliance between Santana's wretched breast implants and the ratio of failed pyramids, and suggested placing the Latina girl in the centre of the bottom so that her falsies could act as sandbags to cushion the others' fall.

When the morning practice ended, Kurt wrote off cleaning up in the locker room when he ducked his head inside and found the word 'fag' spray painted across his locker. Since the holes in the locker were so large to vent, he was sure the black spray had permanently damaged his outfit. He'd learnt from bitter experience that sometimes the graffiti 'artists' (oh how laughingly he used the term) stuck around to witness his reaction and he'd rather not risk the chance of another confrontation.

By third period, when he'd been shoved into the lockers hard enough to add more bruises to his poor shoulder, Kurt was giving serious thought to skipping the rest of the day, but that would just add more fuel to the cold fire burning in his mind. Another year, even thinking of missing a school day was unthinkable – after all, Julliard also looked at academic scores beyond the musical audition pieces one was required to present. Nowadays, though, Kurt was starting to fall behind in his AP classes because there were just certain days that he couldn't immediately get through without a break of some kind.

But Mr. Schuester had been making noises about an 'exciting' new assignment for them all in glee, and if he missed then Quinn would (wrongly) worry (_he was __**fine**_) and then she'd tell Mercedes and _milady Madonna_ could that girl _not_ shut her adorably dolled-up mouth. So Kurt had cleaned himself up as best he could, darted into the lunch room and grabbed one of the chicken wraps before shying off to the bathroom to lock himself in one of the stalls and eat his meal. Of course, that's what he'd been doing for the past week and it should have figured that one of the jocks would finally notice that they hadn't found a way to make him starve through the lunch period for a few days, so they were waiting for him outside with more slushies.

Now Kurt was getting desperate, and in a last-ditch attempt to save the day he'd begged the terrifying new coach Bieste if he could borrow one of the school's loaner gym uniforms (usually he'd rather die, but what could he do? Go naked?). She'd taken one look at him and asked him in her scarily firm way if he needed someone to talk to. He'd smiled fleetingly and told her that he'd tripped (it was sad how often Figgins believed that, not to mention his friends) and that he just needed some clothes. She'd smiled in that sad sort of way that meant pity that had Kurt's fists clenched in impotent rage, but he smiled anyway and thanked her _very politely_.

He made it to his last period of the day with only two more shoves, which was better than the surprise kidney-shot he'd gotten the other day, and by the time glee rolled around the smile on his face was starting to feel less fake. Some of the girls gave him a concerned look, but he just shrugged and said "Slushie. It happens." There were general nods of consent, and Kurt took that to mean that they wouldn't mention anything else.

"You guys really ought to think about getting a petition signed; I'm sure if enough kids asked for it to be removed they'd do something about it," Mr. Schuester said with his irrepressible belief in hope. Kurt snorted cynically.

"It's a valuable source of income to the school, considering how many jocks spend their money on the beverages. Figgins is keeping it for good," Kurt said firmly.

"That doesn't make it okay," Quinn said quietly, but she didn't raise her voice enough for Mr. Schuester to hear her. Introspectively, Kurt thought that he should probably be hurt or offended or disgusted that Mr. Schuester immediately moved to another topic and didn't even question the fact that his most fashionable student was shaking and wet and miserable in a beat-up, too many times washed gym uniform. Instead it had become so routine for teachers to keep their heads down, to take no notice, or to outright ignore anything that happened to one Kurt Hummel that he didn't even notice anymore.

Kurt realised with a start that he'd completely zoned out of the world around him yet again, and he forced himself to stay on topic and actually listen as Schue gave a warm welcome back to Puck and tried to impart some wisdom on the lack of wisdom in trying to execute an ATM theft while intoxicated. Puck flexed his 'guns' and looked around impressively while Kurt rolled his eyes. He noticed that Quinn and Sam were actually sitting apart for a day, and, wondering at what could be going through her mind (Kurt knew for a fact that there was _no_ way that she was as 'over' Puck as she said) he took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

The grateful smile she sent him was small but it was there, and it was certainly more attention than Mercedes had been paying him lately. He glanced over at the gorgeously attired chocolate diva and tried to feel the usual hurt as she nodded at him absently before going back to texting an irritated Tina, but it was buried so far down amongst the ice with everything else that all he felt was a dull pang. Kurt turned back and sighed as Mr. Schuester started to split them up in yet another predictable 'boys vs. girls' set up. There was really no point in going over with the boys; it wasn't like they'd talk to him or listen to him and indeed, if anything, Finn would most likely make some homophobic comment or Puck would crack a joke. If it was a good day, Artie and Mike might look at him sympathetically.

He perked up a bit when Mr. Schuester announced that they'd finally found their competition for sectionals, but he sat back with a huff. Sometimes life in Lima felt a bit like one of those old-time, slice-of-life TV dramas – the Hipsters, a team composed entirely out of senior citizens, really? "The other team will consist of the Dalton Academy Warblers," Schue concluded.

"Dalton Academy? Isn't that that really rich private school?" Tina piped up.

"It's an all-boys school, yes," Mr. Schuester nodded.

"Wow…I just totally thought of like, a million good gay jokes," Santana snorted snidely, and she and Puck swapped high-fives. Kurt stiffened, a million humiliating memories of his idiotic approach to Sam and subsequent accusation of being a sex offender by Finn flashing through his mind, and he had to force himself to take a deep breath and release it. Saying anything would only get on Santana's bad side for Cheerios practice tomorrow. Quinn seemed to reach the same conclusion, so she just squeezed his hand again. Mr. Schuester at least had the decency to frown at Santana before he went back to detailing the assignment, and Kurt sighed as he felt himself beginning to detach again.

As Kurt turned to ask Quinn whether she wanted to do something after Cheerios practice that afternoon, Mr. Schuester turned away from them and casually tossed out – without even _looking_ – "With the boys means you too, Kurt," and then he was closing his briefcase and getting ready to go while Finn and the guys _laughed_ at him. Oddly enough, it was that more than anything that finally shattered his icy composure and he could feel the tears welling up and his fists clenching. Quinn shot him a concerned look when Mercedes patted his shoulder condescendingly as she went to sit next to Santana and he flinched. Kurt didn't need his best friend's _pity_.

"Excuse me," he said quietly, and, grabbing his messenger bag, he quickly headed out of the room. He just needed to get to a bathroom quick enough to splash some cold water on his face—

_BAM_

Kurt hit the lockers hard enough to stumble and he slid to the floor, cracking his tailbone with a decidedly unpleasant twinge as his already-hurt shoulder gave a scream of protest – he must have hit a combination dial, he thought dazedly. They hadn't shoved him that hard before. He glanced up to see Karofsky, Azimio, and Donahue exchanging high fives and mean cackles as his hands shook when he tried to gather his bag to his chest. "Watch it, faggot!" Azimio hollered. "Dressed like that someone might think you're actually a _guy_!" Donahue chuckled as he spit at Kurt's feet casually before the three of them loped off, not even glancing back, not once.

Kurt sat on the floor, alone, shaking, staring at the sickening puddle of saliva, for a long, long time.

**8**

At first the breeze was slight – too small to notice, almost, but Kurt was frozen as a statue and he stiffened slightly. It was the same feeling he'd had in the dumpster that morning: watched, hyperaware of his surroundings, a faint, creeping, tingling feeling dancing through him. The lockers next to him rattled, just a little, just a warning, and Kurt jerked away from them. Karofsky was over his shoulder, right next to him—Kurt spun around and there was an empty hallway. The lockers rattled again, this time harder.

Kurt spun around again—from the corner of his eye, was that Azimio's fist? He jerked away and the lockers on the other side of the hall slammed open, bouncing off their neighbours and the contents spilling out; Kurt leapt away, his breathing coming hard and fast, and before he knew it he'd fallen to his knees and just _screamed,_ "STOP IT!"

There was no one in the hallway. There never had been. Kurt hit the ground hard and drew his knees up to his chest.

He wasn't really aware of how he came to be in Mr. Schuester's office – another time slip, which was troubling – until he found himself clutching Quinn's hand hard enough to hurt. Mr. Schuester was looking at him in something like concern and Kurt had to shake his head a little to realise that the man had likely just asked him a question. "I'm sorry, Mr. Schuester, I've a terrible headache today," he said lightly. "Can you please repeat yourself?"

"I said, Quinn told me that you've been having a hard time lately, and I have to agree with her. I've never seen you act like you have been lately, Kurt – disengaged or uncaring. You don't usually let guys like Karofsky get under your skin." Quinn made a small moue of pain, most likely from how hard Kurt was holding her hand, but the dam had been broken today and the bitter _rage_ that was coursing through him at the sight of Mr. William Schuester's _stupid_ hair over his _idiotic_ concerned expression had his heart pounding like a steel drum.

How _dare_ he say that – like Kurt _should_ be able to deal with the bullying because he was so _used_ to it? Why wouldn't he just _do_ something to _help_? Kurt took a deep, long breath before composing his expression and saying calmly, "There are certain…unfavourable elements in this school, yes, but I assure you that I'm fine." He fought back the urge to sneer when Mr. Schuester nodded as if this was what he was expecting to hear. "The truth is that I'm unchallenged, Mr. Schuester – this assignment is just as boring and repetitive as some of your worst, and the reason I usually want to work with the girls is that not only will they give me a voice to actually work on the project but they might actually give me something to focus on other than the fact that I'm miles ahead of every class in this school. I'm tired." That last had slipped out, more than he'd intended to say. He gathered his bag, thanked Mr. Schuester, and hurried out of the room before Quinn's righteous indignation could come out.

Kurt didn't want to hear it.

**888**

Kurt felt like banging his already aching head against the kitchen cabinets when Mike's text buzzed in on his iPhone; he'd texted the other boy and asked him bluntly if the guys had managed to get any work done after he'd left (there was no way that he was going back into that choir room without three Excedrins in his system, at least, that afternoon). The reply took a while to get back:

**[From Mike]: n sry puck got halo cheetz n d poky**

Once Kurt had actually figured out what the hell Mike was talking about (that Puck had somehow gotten his hands on cheat codes to Halo while in juvie,) he'd realised that if he wanted to get any work done on this project that he would have to do the entire thing himself. There was a small part of him that was excited, however; he was at least as good as, if not better than, Rachel at putting together numbers, and he'd probably be able to come up with something that would beat the girls, at the very least. The rest of him was just frustrated – could they honestly not even work out who would be soloing without him? Because Gaga only knew that they wouldn't let _him_ do it, anyway.

But they would most certainly need him to organise this – Quinn had texted him shortly after he'd gotten home:

**[From Quinn]: I hope you're ok. Schue has us mixing it up/girls doing guy songs vice versa. Mercy says boys need your help. :D**

Kurt sighed. How utterly cliché of Mr. Schuester to try to 'challenge' him. He'd known better than to open his mouth; teachers just didn't help and if anything they made it worse. It was a lesson he'd learned long ago after he'd tried to turn Azimio in for that first shoulder check in freshman year and had come to school the next day and been tied to a flagpole and whipped with belts during homeroom. He rubbed the tiny scar on his stomach from one of the buckles reflexively and shoved the memory far back into that tiny box in the back of his mind labelled _DANGER_ and went back to trying to make dinner.

At least he'd managed to impress upon Quinn how much "txt spk" annoyed him.

As Kurt started chopping vegetables for dinner, he felt himself start to drift off again, and with a start he forced himself to focus. It was starting to happen too much lately, losing time, and he was starting to freak himself out just a little. High school was hell for everyone (wasn't that half the point of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ back in the show's glory days?) There was only two and a half years of it left and then it was over. He would get his scholarship to Julliard and ten years from now he would blaze back into town in a nice, candied-apple red Viper, outfitted in an outfit that would cost more than some _idiot_ like Karofsky would make in two years, the press following him, as he gave his detailed speech on all the reasons that William McKinley High School should be shut down and promptly burnt to the ground. Kurt smiled a little as he imagined performing a heartfelt song about those halcyon days of youth while planning to sneak back later that night and salt the ashes of that cesspit just for good measure.

When his cell rang, he reluctantly slipped out of his daydream and tipped the cutting board full of carrots, potatoes, onions, and peppers into the boiling water (beef stew was still doable for his father's condition provided he bought range-free meat and cooked it before he stewed it so that he could carefully slice the fatty bits away and then used no salt). Figuring it was Quinn, Kurt clicked 'accept' and slipped it to his ear. "What's up?"

"Probably your dick staring at us in the showers, faggot," came a (badly) disguised voice on the other end. Kurt froze for one long, unforgiveable moment. They had his private phone. _How the __**hell**__ did they get this number_…Kurt turned, slowly, and then catalogued his tormentors quickly.

"Johnson, no one's staring at you in the showers. Not even your girlfriend. You should try the girls' bathroom every once in a while and then you might figure out why Anne isn't putting out," he said coldly. Emotions wouldn't do him any good – he'd figured out in middle school that actually letting them know that you were upset only made the taunting worse. The pause had been bad enough; if he bit back hard enough the Neanderthal would just pass on some more choice words and hang up.

"You wish you _were_ a chick, gay boy," Johnson snarled, forgetting to try to keep his act up.

"Hardly," Kurt said quietly. "Then someone like you would actually hit on me and I'd have to go douse myself in bleach to ever feel clean again."

"We'll see how smart that mouth is when you're missing some teeth tomorrow, Hummel," Johnson shot back, and then Kurt was met with the dial tone. He didn't even realise his hands were shaking so much until he'd dropped his phone with a clatter and the dark blue decorative casing snapped off. He slowly bent and picked up the casing to toss in the trash, briefly snagging one of his fingers on one of the jagged edges of the plastic casing. He paused and pressed a little harder, watching the skin turn white, and then a little pink…blood around the edges…

Jerking back from the precipice that his thoughts had yet again wandered to without his permission, Kurt threw the offending object in the trash, turned his phone off, slipped it in his pockets, and finished cooking dinner. As soon as the ingredients were cooking, he walked straight downstairs and into his bathroom, rifling through his medicine cabinet until he found the small yellow bottle that he was looking for. The bottle was marked Lithium, and he clenched it hard.

He hadn't had to take the pills in a long time; had fought against it. Medication usually put him in a fog. Kurt thought back to the occurrences in the dumpster and the hallway. He hadn't hallucinated anything like that before, but they'd felt…_familiar_, almost like the nightmares he had that were starting to come back. And the time slips, and…Kurt pocketed the bottle and headed back upstairs when he heard the oven timer go off.

When Kurt had officially hit puberty, he'd begun having incredibly vivid nightmares. Burt had taken his son to see specialist after specialist, but none of them seemed to help. Over time, Kurt had apparently begun sleepwalking when the dreams were especially bad as his room would get hit by what looked like a hurricane at night. According to the doctors, puberty was such an incredible time genetically that Kurt's brain had just reacted badly to the chemical changes occurring in his body, which wasn't entirely uncommon.

When he'd hit middle school, however, and his voice hadn't changed and the other boys in Lima seemed to take offence to his behaviour, Kurt had finally told one of the doctors that the night terrors and particularly the sleepwalking got worse those days that he got picked on. At first the doctor had tried anti-anxiety medication for panic attacks. It had worked at first, actually, until Kurt had started having something like hallucinations about things moving around him, seeing a man that wasn't there – the man from his nightmares. Kurt could remember describing a pair of black eyes, eyes like a doll with nothing in them, hollow as the end of the world, just staring at him like he was _owned_.

"_Lithium," said Dr. Shane kindly as she regarded Kurt over her desk, "is generally considered an anti-depressant, but really it's a stabiliser for your brain. It helps with depression, mania, and some forms of schizophrenia – like hallucinations."_

"_You want to start me on an antipsychotic," Kurt said bluntly._

"_Yes," she said flatly. This was something that Kurt had always appreciated about Dr. Shane – she told it like it was and she never pulled her punches with him. "Kurt, since I've been seeing you you've become like some of the insomnia patients I see; the bags under your eyes have bags. You look like you're being followed, frankly. Now, I don't think that you're 'crazy', as one would traditionally think. But I think that you're finding adolescence to be a harder time than it should be, and I'd like to help you with that."_

The lithium seemed to work, too, for the most part – if Kurt didn't mind the gray fog that seemed to obscure the world around him. But for two blessed months of medication he hadn't had one single dream, no matter how strange the pills made him feel. But he hadn't taken one single pill since the afternoon that New Directions had first come together for "Don't Stop Believin'," and he'd be damned if one spectacularly bad day sent him spiralling back to where he was a year ago, hallucinations or bullies like that _idiot_ Karofsky be damned.

Viciously portioning out dinner, Kurt froze when he felt a soft touch behind his ear. "No," he said firmly. "You're not there." He took the plates into the dining room and set them out. _Kurt_, whispered the voice. "You're _not_ there."

_Yes, I am_.

There were times when Kurt felt like he was standing in the middle of a frozen lake, and the ice was starting to splinter. When he breathed, his breath came out cold.

**888**

"This tastes great, buddy," Burt said warmly from across the table.

"As opposed to the exact same way I made it last week, when you told me it was bland and that a man should be allowed his sodium intake," Kurt said dryly. Burt stared at him askance. "What do you want?"

"Aren't I supposed to be the parent in this conversation?" Burt asked, matching his son's sarcasm tit for tat. Kurt smiled a little. Ever since Burt's return from the hospital, things had been…different, between them, but this – dinner at the table and a shared sense of humour – this hadn't changed much.

"Well, you know that I took Saturday off," Burt began. Kurt nodded encouragingly and resisted the urge to shake some salt into his own soup. The one compromise he'd made with his dad was that if Burt had to suffer, then Kurt couldn't eat things Burt wanted to eat but couldn't (at least, not in front of him.) Kurt supposed that he was eating healthier as well, but sometimes…much as he hated to use his father's own trope, a man needed his sodium intake. "I decided to take your advice and treat Carole to that ice skating rink in the park they're doing," Burt said finally.

"That's great, dad," Kurt said warmly. He meant it, too – even if he and Carole hadn't exactly seen eye-to-eye during his father's hospital stay (a time Kurt didn't care to think about this side of _ever_), she was a genuinely nice woman and she had kept enough distance between the two of them that Kurt knew she was smart enough to know that she should never, ever try to replace his mother. The fact that she made his dad as happy as she did was just an added bonus, though he tried desperately to block the memory of the snap decision to introduce them. Kurt's New Year's resolutions for 2011 were going to firmly include _not_ making snap decisions. "But seeing as how I suggested this little date, I'm going to assume there's an actual _reason_ why you're trying – badly, I might add – to butter me up."

"You know what they say about assume," Burt tried. Kurt rolled his eyes and delicately dunked a small chunk of his whole-wheat, fibre-plus, no-sodium bread (once having an idea that he could live off of healthy foods if forced in order to fit into that new Vivienne Westwood line, Kurt was learning that some brands were about as good as Sue Sylvester's shakes diets) in the soup to try to make it more edible. Burt's eyes glowed with humour and he matched Kurt's movements, matching his son's grimace when they plopped the pieces in their mouths.

"I still maintain that we have to finish the damn loaf off before we try a new brand," Kurt said flatly.

"You'll weaken after another dinner with this," Burt said, dolefully poking at the creation attempting to pass itself off as bread on his plate.

Kurt paused and then bowed his head. "It's somewhat within the realm of possibility that some servings have been finding their way to the birds in the park on the way to school."

Burt burst out laughing, and Kurt gave a reluctant chuckle as well (he most certainly wasn't going to tell his father that of the few birds who didn't turn their beaks up at the selection, the ones who took the offering tended to vomit it right back up and squawk at him indignantly.) "So, Dad, what did you need to ask me?"

"Well, Carole says that Finn's girlfriend is going out of town this weekend, and I know that Finn and that Mohawk kid aren't really hanging out much anymore, and she doesn't really want to leave him alone all day…"

"This is _your_ house, not mine," Kurt said calmly, going very still. "You certainly don't need to ask my permission to let Finn use our TV. And you can also tell Carole that she doesn't have to try so hard to get Finn and me to get along. We are perfectly alright after our…misunderstanding." _Please, daddy, don't let him back in after you said you wouldn't, please, please…_

"Look, Kurt…" Burt sighed and trailed off. "I know I tell you this a lot, but you're an awful lot like your mother." Kurt stared at him, curious despite himself. "She'd go real still like that when something upset her, too." Kurt jerked back. "Now, I still may not know the whole story about everything that happened, but I've got a piece of your story and a piece of Finn's. I know you're still upset about what I said about it a few weeks ago, and I've been thinking about that. I _should_ have asked you for the whole story instead of just going on Carole's word and confronting you about it."

"It's fine," Kurt said mechanically.

"No, it's not," Burt said flatly. "You've gotta know that you're my son, Kurt. Your happiness always comes first. Now, I really like Carole, and I'd like to think that you'll be okay being alone with Finn for a bit. But you need to know that if you tell me, I'll tell Carole, and that'll be it."

And Kurt knew that his dad would do it, too. A small, mean part of him wanted desperately to tell his dad that no, he _wasn't_ okay with it and even the thought of letting Finn back into their home and his _sanctuary_ from homophobic jocks who made his life hell was enough to trigger another panic attack. But his father wanted so much to be happy with Carole, and Carole just wanted everyone to be friends. He had no room to be selfish. "I told you – I don't have a problem with it. Besides, I'm sure he'll just try to get me to play a video game with him long enough to get killed before he convinces me to help him with his Spanish homework."

"Okay then," Burt said slowly. "If you're _sure_." Kurt forced himself to nod and smile that same smile that got him through glee every time Rachel grabbed a solo he'd wanted, that same smile that had helped him fool the room after the "Defying Gravity" debacle. He and his father shared a long look, before nodding in tandem, sighing, and getting up to throw the meal away. Kurt pretended not to notice when Burt, scraping dishes into the trash, _accidentally_ elbowed the offending 'bread' in with the rest.

That night, he took a pill.

**888**

Kurt stepped out of his car and sighed regretfully as he locked it. He loved his Navigator and he was well aware that it was one of the better cars in the parking lot – probably the only reason the jocks hadn't messed with it, though he had nightmarish thoughts whenever he left his baby alone of coming out to escape the hellhole only to find his tyres slashed, or his windscreen destroyed. Putting it out of his head, he wrapped his thick Burberry coat tighter around himself as he headed for the school's doors. He refused to show his shaking hands as he noticed a fairly irate looking Johnson leading the jocks around the dumpster.

"Hey!" Sam Evans' cheerful voice rang out as the would-be blond loped up behind him. "What's up?" He oh-so-casually insinuated his taller, more muscular frame in between Kurt and the Neanderthals' line of vision, and Kurt frowned, his fists clenching in their pockets. This was just making this worse – a dumpster dive was fine; if the jocks couldn't do _that_ to him it would just make the harassment worse later in the day (punishment, Kurt bitterly assumed, for not taking his rightful place in the garbage).

"Why?" Kurt asked suspiciously, scanning the parking lot. "Did your better half put you up to this?" Though he couldn't see a pack of Cheerios anywhere, that didn't mean they weren't there (Sue insisted on stealth training for her more elite troops for the occasions she sent them to spy on their 'competition'). Sam's bugged eyes told him all he needed to know. Kurt took a moment to compose himself – after all, Sam was a sort of friend and he was likely the only male in glee club other than Artie who genuinely didn't treat his being gay as some sort of communicable disease. He didn't need to indulge in his Rachel-like need to launch into a diva bitch-fit…especially not in front of an angry audience.

"Look, Sam, not that I don't appreciate the effort but you really shouldn't be hanging around me this time of morning if you want to avoid the dumpster dives yourself," Kurt said. "And frankly, you can tell Quinn to mind her own business."

"Hey, man," Sam said uncomfortably. "You just…seem like you've been having a hard time lately. And it's not just Quinn. I mean, you're pretty cool and it sucks that they've been goin' off on you for nothing."

"Thank you, Sam. But I'm fine," Kurt said flatly. He turned on his heel smartly. "I'll see you in glee club this afternoon." _I'm fine_, he told himself. The jocks' faces promised payback later in the day. _I'm __**fine**_.

Some days Kurt wondered if he'd ever actually believed himself when he said those two words.

**888**

"OMG, boo, you will not _believe_ what Artie told Tina he heard in the locker room," Mercedes trilled, grabbing his arm the way she used to do when they had been much closer. Kurt felt halfway like snatching his hand away from her and walking away, but more than that he just wanted to hug her and have her understand without asking, the way he'd assumed she'd always be able to.

"Mercedes, we've discussed your use of text speak in conversation," Kurt said instead, forcing the bitterness from his voice and adopting a light tone. "I won't get offended or anywhere near as bitchy as I was last month if you say God, you know." She nudged him with her shoulder and Kurt thought he might burst into tears. He forced a smile and chose to say nothing about when Johnson had cornered him in the bathroom last period and twisted his arm hard enough to burn before slamming him into one of the stalls and leaving him there on the filthy floor. (Kurt made a mental note that his dry-cleaning bill this week would have to be hidden from his father. Sometimes he felt slightly magnanimous at the fact that he was almost solitarily putting Mr. Sharp's daughter through college.) "And what, pray tell, is so fascinating?"

"Some of the jocks around here apparently can't hold off the big moment, if you know what I mean," Mercedes stage-whispered. "So they've been daydreaming about doing the nasty with the Bieste to kill the need!"

"That's absolutely filthy," Kurt gasped. "And kind of cruel. And…gross."

"Right!"

"What are we talking about?" Quinn asked, slinking up beside them calmly.

"Unspeakable horror," Kurt declared. Before he could make a comment on Sam's sudden white knight complex, Quinn slipped her hand firmly into his and squeezed it lightly. The memory of his outburst in Mr. Schuester's office tasted sour in his mouth and he let the Sam thing go. Mercedes started filling Quinn in on the latest gossip while Kurt stared down at Quinn's hand. It was slight and girlish, but gripped firm, with well-cared for, lightly coloured nails. There was something almost…marvellous about this – the simple feeling of someone holding his hand for comfort's sake. People just didn't…_touch_ Kurt; around McKinley 'his gay was contagious.' It'd been years since he'd felt a male other than his father touch him willingly for any length of time that didn't involve some form of abuse. He felt his hand twitch, almost like a tremble, in Quinn's.

"That's filthy," Quinn agreed. "But nowhere near as filthy as what Rachel's _wearing_ today – she's managed to find lime green stockings in her size. I think she had to scour the _Tinkerbell_ section in the Disney store first." Mercedes squealed, not even noticing that Quinn was still holding Kurt's hand.

"God, she's going to be a pain in my fabulous _ass_ to work with – do you remember how she was the last mash-up competition?" Mercedes demanded.

"Ugh," Quinn winced. "Although, to be entirely fair to her, she _was_ hyped up on one of the base ingredients of crystal meth at the time."

"I'm surprised any of you noticed a difference," Kurt commented meanly. He _was_ making an effort to be nicer to Rachel since their _fabulous_ rendition of the Streisand/Garland duet at the end of that horrendous duets competition week, but brutal honesty was one of Kurt's personality traits and nearly all of Rachel's personality traits all seemed to be summed up in one word: _awful_.

"Oh, there was a difference," Quinn commented lightly. "You know how fast she talks when she _really_ wants a solo?" Kurt nodded. "Picture that...all the time, and about ten times faster."

"I went through half a bottle of Excedrin Migraine Strength," Mercedes agreed.

"You poor things," he deadpanned, and Quinn chuckled lightly. As Mercedes, Kurt, and Quinn split up and headed towards their respective homerooms, Kurt's steps stilled involuntarily – Karofsky was already at the door, staring at the two of them, glaring. Kurt felt his eyes fixate on Quinn's hand in his and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why that would _upset_ the Neanderthal, but maybe the reminder that Kurt actually seemed to have someone in his corner when Karofsky had worked so hard to cut everyone and everything enjoyable _out_ of Kurt's life was just too much to handle.

"Kurt, how long has he been following you to homeroom?" Quinn asked out of the blue, turning him to face her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt said automatically, meeting her eyes head-on. Why he was lying to her, he couldn't even place his finger on, but it was almost the same feeling as telling his father that things weren't alright at his school. The difference between Quinn and his father was that Quinn had actually _seen_ things that Kurt couldn't make her unsee with dazzling clothes and stage attitude. Her eyes were hard when she met his gaze and unwavering.

"Kurt, I know that we're not all good at noticing that things are getting bad for you at this school – the jocks don't leave you alone after one slushie like they do Rachel and everyone else. But slushies are one thing. This is _ridiculous_ – how long has Karofsky been getting this bad? Why won't you _tell_ someone?"

"And what do you think they'd _do_?" Kurt snapped, almost _hearing_ one of the tight cords of his self-control breaking with a cracking sound deep in his subconscious. He was horrified to feel tears welling in his eyes. "The first time one of them stole my iPod was _in front of_ Mrs. Larson. Mr. Schuester has been walking past the dumpster dives since I met him. All 'telling' does is get them madder. I can _handle_ this, and I don't need you treating me like the baby you lost or your _stupid_ picture-perfect boyfriend following me around the parking lot!"

For just a moment it was like time had slowed, and Kurt could watch with a sort of sick fascination the emotions racing across Quinn's face one right after another like a deck of cards shuffling itself, before her hand flew out and slapped him across the face hard enough to make him take an involuntary step back. They stared at each other for a long minute before the shock on Quinn's face morphed into something like anger.

"You know what, Kurt, you _can't_ play the ice bitch with me because I'm better at that act than you," she said lowly, staring him down. "I'm also probably the only person in this damn school who has any idea what you're going through! You think I don't _know_ how much it hurts to have people not want to touch you like they can catch something? I _do_. You aren't alone, Kurt, but you're going to be if you keep pushing away every friend who wants to help you!"

Kurt's fists clenched and for just one tiny moment he felt guilt, anger, before he took one, two breaths and shoved each and every emotion he was feeling beneath the swirling ice. He turned and walked into the room without a backward glance, refusing to back down from Karofsky's hateful glare. Nothing was new and nothing had changed, and one thing that Kurt had learnt a very long time ago was that nothing ever would. Quinn was concerned _now_ because he was her cause of the moment or _whatever_; Mercedes had been just as concerned before texting Tina had become more important than wondering if Kurt was holding up well after being thrown face-first into a large, metal garbage receptacle for daring to exist.

**888**

By the time Kurt got home that day, all he wanted to do was take a long shower and then lay down in the dark and pretend the world didn't exist by sheer force of will until his father got home from work. Glee had been excruciatingly boring – they'd been split into their respective groups to work on their mash-up projects and Mr. Schuester had shot him an encouraging look when Kurt had gone to sit with the rest of the boys. They'd dragged their chairs in a circle and left Kurt an open seat a bit farther from the rest of them but closer than they had in the past. They'd then gone ahead and started talking about, as far as Kurt could tell, the latest advances in 3-D sports video games and whether or not they'd give the cheerleaders short enough skirts.

Kurt, dubious enough about the sexual value of computer-generated images, had sarcastically wondered aloud once if they might actually work on the project itself for a few minutes. "Dude, that's like not even till next Monday. We've got all week," Puck shrugged lazily. Artie, after glancing over at Tina and Brittany, carefully copied the move. Kurt stared at him in horror before turning back to Puck.

"It's Thursday, Puckerman. The girls are already talking costume choices; we don't even have two songs picked out yet," he pointed out through gritted teeth.

"Whatevs," Puck said carelessly, turning away from him. "Dudes, did you _see_ the looks Sarah Miller was givin' me when I came in yesterday? She's totally got a thing for the jailbird look…" Tuning him out, Kurt chose to ignore the steady gaze of Quinn from across the room and stood up, aware of eyes on him as he obnoxiously dragged a small table to his lonely chair, took out his Calculus homework, plugged in a pair of ear-buds, and flipped on the new Natalia Kills promotional single. Mr. Schuester looked frustrated, but Kurt couldn't tell if it was with the situation or with him. As he finished the first problem, Finn and Sam at least had the good grace to look a little guilty as they went back to talking about poor Sarah Miller's breasts, and there were a few sympathetic glances from the girls (certainly not from Rachel; after all, she was most likely very aware that the girls were going to beat the boys easily enough.)

No one actually wanted to help him, of course, and Mr. Schuester said and did nothing. Kurt looked up and met Quinn's gaze head-on until the girl looked down. Nothing changed, and nothing ever did.

_I'm in love with zombie_

_When he puts his hands on me_

_Sends chills through my body_

_I'm in love with a zombie (boy)_

_But his heart is so cold_

He'd managed to completely get through his math homework and outline his next English essay before the session was over. He'd hurried to get to his car, skirting the locker room so that Azimio couldn't get any cute ideas about trying to trap him in there like the jocks had done that one time (and _that_ had taken some doing, lying to his father why he'd come home soaking wet and shaking two hours after school had ended. It had involved a ridiculously drawn-out explanation of the fire hydrant that had randomly exploded as Kurt walked by (Kurt maintained it was from his sheer fabulousness) and the fact that his father had _bought_ it meant that Kurt was either a scarily good liar or that he needed to start writing fiction novels quick).

Of course, he'd managed to nearly forget about missing the dumpster-dive that morning thanks to Quinn's good intentions, so he was completely blindsided when a group of the Neanderthals popped into existence from whatever primordial ooze they evolved from when they weren't tormenting him, grabbed him from behind, and, forgoing the traditional root, slammed him back-first into the hard metal side of the dumpster, leaving him to slide down the filthy side until he hit the ground. Kurt vaguely heard a high-pitched keening sound and was somewhat astounded to find it was coming from him. It wasn't something he could feel beneath the waves of pain as every bruise on his back screamed back into life. Oddly enough, all he could see for a second was Quinn's longing face as he and Mercedes _killed_ "4 Minutes" at the Cheerios rally.

_The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, yeah_…

Oh, but that had been an endorphin rush, he reflected dazedly.

"Dudes, look! I think we knocked his fairy ass out!"

"Good," a voice said darkly. Kurt felt oddly naked as Karofsky glared at him. So much hatred behind those dark eyes, and there was something deep in Kurt that protested this – it had gone so far beyond homophobia at this point. He just wanted to live and be left alone; why did his very existence _bother_ David Karofsky so much? They exchanged a few high-fives and left him there to pick himself up and limp home with as much battered dignity as he could allow. Once he was home, he tossed the hundred-dollar coat in the garbage pail. There was no dry cleaner in the world that could get that grime out of the khaki material.

Of course, it was only after he'd staggered into his shower that he realised that Finn was going to be there at any minute and his dad was expecting him upstairs. Turning the water as hot as he could stand, he massaged it into his bruises, rolling his shoulders and loosening the knots in his muscles until he felt like he could move normally again. Pulling on a soft blue, Dior, long-sleeve shirt and his most stretchy black skinny jeans, Kurt surveyed himself in the mirror. He frowned at the incomplete look and pulled on the dark blue, striped, fingerless gloves he'd made himself after seeing the fabulous opening dress from _Alice in Wonderland_. Covering up as much skin as possible wasn't just protection for him; he was hoping that Finn would refrain from making any more comments than necessary if Kurt made himself as sexless as possible.

Just in case, he popped another pill. It hadn't helped with the nightmares as much as it used to last night, but he'd made it all the way through the day yesterday without one…incident, or time slip, so he called it a win.

Nodding decisively, he traipsed up the stairs and firmly shut the basement door behind himself. Going along with his father's plans for 'bonding time' was one thing, but there was absolutely no way that Finn was _ever_ setting foot in the basement again if Kurt had his say in the matter. His dad was waiting for him in the kitchen and Kurt resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall.

"Just stop," he ordered, as soon as Burt opened his mouth. "Dad, you're going on a _date_, not to cut logs with the boys. Upstairs and out of that flannel or I'll take a pair of scissors to you."

"We're going ice-skating! It's warm!" Burt protested. Kurt smirked and reached into the kitchen supply drawer, brandishing the scissors menacingly. Burt threw up his hands in mock exasperation and Kurt accepted the victory smugly.

"Put on your dark green button-up, your black jacket and some gloves, and go for blue jeans," he ordered. "Use a scarf if you have to but don't wear that yellow eyesore you think you managed to sneak in under my nose. It's only because you've changed your hiding places that that _thing_ isn't a pile of ashes in a lock box."

"You're a menace," Burt accused. "And thank you."

"You're welcome. Don't forget your head is shaved. Bring a hat!" After his dad tromped back up the stairs, Kurt sighed and set about putting together a snack plate of the unhealthiest things they had left in the house after the purge. Just because he wasn't necessarily looking _forward_ to the company, there was _never_ an excuse to not be a proper host and Kurt was determined to get through this afternoon with grace.

When his phone buzzed a new call and he didn't recognise the phone number, Kurt clicked ignore and then shut it off. If he happened to miss a text from Mercedes, he'd just catch up with her tomorrow. He didn't particularly want to talk to Quinn at the moment.

4:30 rolled around before either of the Hummels really noticed it, and the knock at the door came right on time. One thing that Kurt had learnt to appreciate about Carole was her efforts at promptness. Burt shot him a double-thumbs up which Kurt returned with his brightest show smile before his dad opened the door. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Kurt trailed behind. He waved at Carole as she greeted him warmly enough to surprise Kurt. He hadn't spoken to her since Finn had spilled his version of the basement debacle and he wasn't sure if she still believed that he was some sort of potential rapist out to get her son in the dead of night.

"Hey dude," Finn said, awkwardly hiding behind his mom the same way that Kurt was hiding behind his dad. Realising that nothing was going to get done unless he manned up in the quarterback's place, Kurt stepped around his dad and welcomed the Hudsons into the house.

"It's great to have you by again," he greeted automatically. "I set up the living room so you can plug your X-Box into the widescreen if you brought it with you." He nodded at Finn's bag. "I've got some snacks and some drinks in the kitchen. I'll bring them out." He smiled tightly and headed into the kitchen, waiting until he heard Finn lumbering predictably towards the television to let out a deep breath.

"How are you, sweetie?" He jumped violently and whirled around, cursing internally as he saw Carole's startled reaction to his reflex. Ever since Karofsky had begun practically stalking him from hall to hall, looking for Kurt to be alone for locker shoves, and really ever since the weirdness had started again, the idea of having someone in the room behind him where he couldn't see them made Kurt's flesh crawl. He hadn't heard her follow him into the kitchen at all.

"Fine, I'm fine!" he said brightly, hiding his shaking hands underneath the snack tray he'd assembled. "You startled me; I didn't realise you were wearing flats."

"I'm sorry," Carole said after a moment. She gave him an uncomfortably searching look before she took a breath and said softly, "Kurt, I understand that a lot of feelings were hurt when the fight happened. I just wanted to let you know how much it means to me that you and Finn are hanging out this afternoon."

"Anything I can do for you and dad. He's really happy when he's with you and that makes _me_ happy," Kurt said firmly, which wasn't exactly a lie. "And I think I still owe you an apology for the way that I snapped at you when he was in the hospital, anyway."

"Forgiven and forgotten – though, have you forgotten how much Finn eats? I hope you packed something else for yourself," Carole said, picking up the Diet Coke bottle Kurt had been juggling from the fridge (it was the only soda that his dad somewhat liked the taste of that was rated close enough to heart-healthy to allow his dad to sneak some cola into his diet.)

"I did think to make myself a salad," Kurt joked back, following her out to the living room. He felt a pang of bitterness, deep, deep down, still, when he saw his dad and Finn easily chatting about some football player's chances for the Superbowl while they plugged Finn's games into the TV. Ever since that wonderfully therapeutic (and magnificent, if he did say so himself) rendition of "Rose's Turn," things had been a bit easier between him and his dad, but it didn't stop the slight jealousy of how it didn't take a crisis for Burt and Finn to make casual conversation. Shaking his head slightly, Kurt pasted on a smile and set the food down on the coffee table, which he'd arranged so that he and Finn could sit in different chairs and not have to look at each other if they needed to talk.

"Well, I think that's everything," Burt announced, clapping his hands. "You boys play nice tonight and I'll try to have her back before nine." Carole smacked Burt's arm smartly as he and Finn chuckled and Kurt let out a weak laugh. Bidding them goodbye, Burt and Carole excitedly headed out the door and left the living room in an awkward silence.

"So, uh…you wanna play _Left 4 Dead_?" Finn asked, shuffling his feet.

"That's quite alright," Kurt said after a measured moment. "I've got some homework I was going to finish up, if you wouldn't mind keeping the volume down a little."

"Cool," Finn nodded.

"Right."

Finally, Kurt sighed a little and pushed the snack tray closer to Finn before he dug in his backpack and pulled out his water bottle and his history notebook so he could begin sketching out a thesis for his research paper. For a while, it was alright – it would be far too rude to plug his headphones in but Finn had the volume down and if he focused just so, the bullet noises faded into a light electronica beat like one of Madonna's remix albums and Kurt could almost, almost pretend that he was alone in the room. He smirked as he finished up his outline, dating the paper and reviewing his sources. It was a flawless paper and he was guaranteed an A, but that wouldn't stop Mr. Owens from glaring at him fiercely; his topic was "Historical and Scientific Inaccuracies in the Book of Exodus" – a nice, eight page long documentation of cohesive arguments that the 'ten plagues' and other stories were absolute nonsense – rather like any of the hallucinations that had been plaguing him recently.

Kurt had always felt comfortable with science – it was easy to grasp, to measure, to predict, and to control. There weren't any forms of magic or invisible spirits or wishes or prayers to understanding that if an apple falls from a tree, gravity will increase its velocity until it hits the ground. When he hid behind science, he got by fine.

Kurt paused a moment to consider that perhaps stabbing holes through his teachers' religious philosophies wasn't the best way to convince them that they should maybe take notice of how insane the bullying problem at WMHS had become, but then, they would never have helped him anyway so perhaps graduating as the valedictorian would be enough salt rubbed in their wounds as he left Lima behind in the dust.

In fact, by the time he was finishing his parenthetical citations Kurt was ready to call the evening a success. It was nearing 7:30 and Finn had apparently achieved something big in his game so he was in a firmly good mood and had even joked around with Kurt when Kurt helped him with some of his Spanish homework. Kurt was completely finished with his homework for the weekend and the new _Vogue Italia_ would be hitting the shelves soon. He had nothing ahead of him this weekend except for fashion cataloguing and perhaps setting up a _What Not to Wear_ weekend date with Mercedes if she was free as some kind of peace offering – not that he should be the one to make it, of course, but it was the principle of the thing.

"I don't know how you keep up with all your AP classes. They're so boring!" Finn complained, and Kurt smirked slightly as he headed to the kitchen to refill his water.

"Maybe because I don't spend all my time with video games?" he suggested.

"But you spend all your time with fashion magazines!" Finn returned. Kurt smiled at him approvingly.

"That was a good comeback. I'm so proud," Kurt joked, and Finn chuckled.

"So, speaking of time management – I'm assuming that we still don't have anything done for our mash-up assignment for glee yet?" Kurt asked lightly. Finn nodded, and Kurt sighed. "Well, here – why don't I pull up my iTunes and screen some girl artists and you could try to pick some songs out that we could run by everyone else?"

"That'd totally work," Finn nodded. "Y'know, as long as we don't get stuck looking too gay or anything." Kurt froze, and Finn smacked himself in the head. "Dude, I'm sorry! Rachel keeps telling me not to say that. She says it's home…homeo—"

"Homophobic, I believe is the term you're looking for," Kurt said through gritted teeth. "And yes, actually, it's an incredibly mean thing to say, but it's not like I expect anything else from _you_ at this point." That last part slipped out a little more harshly than Kurt had intended, but he really couldn't help himself. It was just ignorance; Finn was more of an internalised homophobe than anything else and he probably didn't even realise that calling things 'gay' to mean bad or wrong or messed up was hurtful in the first place. But knowing that and being confronted with it were two different things, and all Kurt could think of was that wretched night in the basement and he just _couldn't_ go through that again, not in his house.

"That's really not cool," Finn protested. "I know things aren't, like, really cool between us right now but I thought we were friends."

"Please don't try to turn this back on me," Kurt said, frowning. "Just, think about it, Finn! If something went wrong in _my_ life and I called it 'straight' to say that it was wrong, wouldn't that make _you_ mad?"

"Well, yeah, but no one would say that," Finn said slowly. "It wouldn't make sense."

Kurt wondered dully if it were possible to develop an eye tic before high school even ended. "Do you even _think_ about the words that come out of your mouth before you say them? Honestly?"

"Why do you have to make everything so much worse than it is?" Finn demanded. "It's like everything has to be drama about _you_ all the time!"

"I don't _ask_ to be treated the way that I am, Finn!" Kurt snapped back shrilly.

"_Don't_ you?" Finn asked, and Kurt stared at him. At some point they'd stood up and were facing each other from across the living room, all peace and solemnity broken. "I mean, do you _have_ to dress like that and act like that all the time?"

"Act like what, Finn?" Kurt asked quietly. "Too _gay_ for you?" His fists were clenched; he was so angry he felt like nothing more than smashing Finn's big, stupid head in with the snack plate. His body was thrumming with tension tighter than a twisted piano chord and he could already feel the beginning of a migraine creeping into the base of his spine.

"Why do you have to be gay?" Finn snapped, his eyes narrowed.

"_What_?"

"Well, I mean, I know that that thing with Brittany was all about your dad," Finn said, trying to sound reasonable. "But have you ever even _tried_ to be straight?"

"Being gay is not a _choice_, you moron!" Kurt hollered.

"Why not? It doesn't make any sense," Finn yelled back.

"It doesn't have to make sense to you; it's just what I am," Kurt said angrily. "I _knew_ there was no way tonight was a good idea – you just can't _help_ yourself, can you?"

"You're the one that has to take everything so damn personally! Everyone says that _Rachel_ is self-centred but—"

"Oh, that's _rich_, _you_ calling _me_ self-centred," Kurt snarled. "You are one of the most selfish people I've ever _met_!"

"You're still just pissed because of the basement!" Finn accused. "You're mad because of what happened during duets week because you know I was right!"

"You were _not_ right!" Kurt screamed, losing control completely. "You practically accused me of trying to _rape_ you, you son of a _bitch_!"

"Don't insult my mother!"

"You do it yourself every time you open your mouth and show off how _dumb_ you are!" Kurt returned poisonously. "You think you're so _wonderful_ because you always have Mr. Schuester and Rachel and your mother saying what a _leader_ you are – well you know what, Finn Hudson? You're in _my_ house now!" Kurt had no idea where this was coming from but the cold fire in the back of his mind was roaring hot now and every single scrap of anger and bitterness and rage he'd ever felt toward Finn was fuelling him now, driving him forward and feeling even more gratified when Finn took a stumbling step back.

"You are a selfish, idiotic, teenage boy who only cares about himself! Even back when you thought Quinn's baby was yours, every time I was around you all I did was hear you whine about how _hard_ your life was and how you had to get a _job_ and fantasise about cheating with Rachel anyway! You're not the best football player on the team but you've had the quarterback position handed to you and teachers pass you out of _pity_! You're not even the best singer but thanks to Rachel and Mr. Schuester's freakish attachment to you, you steal every single solo one of us wants and then you expect us to be _grateful_ for it!

"Yeah, I used to have a crush on you!" he went on, feeling nothing but grim satisfaction as Finn looked like he'd gotten punched in the stomach. "Because I used to think that you were different because you were nicer. But I learned, Finn – you are _nothing_ more than a coward! You were the only guy who gave glee up for football and joined the slushie wars as soon as your popularity was threatened; you've let us and Rachel down every single time someone asks you to choose between being popular and actually being a captain of the glee club, and you'd rather _watch_ Karofsky and his goons attack me than step in because one of them _might_ call you gay!"

"They _were_ calling me gay, because you freaking _stalked_ me and lured me down to your freaking basement, you _freak_!" Finn snapped back.

"That was my _dad's_ decision," Kurt said derisively. "And since we're talking about duets week, here's something else for you – you never actually said _no_ to me, not ever, and if you just _had,_ I would have stopped. All I did was have a stupid crush and _believe_ me, that's gone now! Rachel can _have_ you. The two of you are the cruellest, most selfish people I have _ever_ met!"

"Shut up!" Finn shouted angrily. "Maybe the reason you don't have _any_ friends isn't because you're a _fag_; it's because you're a _bitch_!"

They both froze completely. Kurt felt a bit like he was falling into a dark hole, but he'd learnt long ago that there wasn't a Wonderland at the bottom. Instead he could feel himself retreating back behind every shield of ice he had ever hidden behind. He turned away from Finn and walked slowly toward the front hall, feeling a bit like a zombie from some movie Tina had forced him to sit through over the summer.

"Dude, wait," Finn said hesitantly, lingering behind him. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean…"

Kurt took the keys from the hook and walked out the front door, shutting it behind him. It didn't matter if Finn couldn't even finish the apology; what could he say? Kurt walked stiffly toward his car and stepped inside, throwing it into reverse and pulling out of the driveway without really thinking about it.

After his mother had died, Burt had started taking Kurt to the shop with him. It hadn't been the first time that Kurt had been in the place, but he had never spent so much time there before. He hadn't understood it at the time, of course, but he looked so much like his mother that his father hadn't been able to bear letting Kurt out of his sight. Kurt had come to associate the smells of cars with safety. Cars were machines; they didn't think or feel or love or hate. You kept them in good condition and fixed all of their hurts and they ran good for you.

In Lima, to get onto the bridge over the river, you had to take a broad turn. Kurt found himself wondering what it would be like to not turn and just keep driving.

**8**

By the time Burt had called Kurt to let him know that they were on their way back, Kurt was pulling back into the driveway. After hanging the phone up, he took a deep breath and locked the doors, slowly letting himself back into the house. Finn was sitting in the living room with a football game on the TV, but he didn't look like he was paying much attention. Finn froze when he heard the door opening. Kurt sighed and walked quickly through the room, giving Finn a wide berth as he cleaned up the food and drinks from earlier and took them to the kitchen.

Finn shut the TV off and the house went silent as a tomb. Kurt gathered his school supplies together and when Finn tried to speak he cut him off with a vicious hand gesture. "Just _don't_." The silence alternated between intense and awkward for a few minutes before the headlights of Burt's truck swung through the windows and Kurt listlessly sighed as the car doors opened. Then he turned to Finn and said, "Just don't say anything, alright?" Pasting on his best show smile and ignoring the look that Finn shot his way, Kurt waited for the front door to open before he stepped forward to greet a happily giggling Burt and Carole.

His dad eyed him suspiciously, but luckily Carole didn't seem to pick up on anything other than asking if Finn was alright. His nod seemed to be enough for her, or maybe the date had been that good. Kurt selfishly wished that it wasn't the latter because then it might mean not having to see Finn Hudson in his house ever again, but he wouldn't want that for his dad.

As Burt walked them out on the porch, Kurt drifted slowly into the living room. He could practically _feel_ the argument still in here; it was an odd feeling, remembering completely losing control like that, almost like he was being goaded on, to make the argument even worse than it was. He glanced around the room and frowned as he noticed that Finn seemed to have tried to clean everything up, almost like a peace offering. Kurt felt the tears welling in his eyes, and he called good-night to his dad before Burt could notice as he headed downstairs.

**888**

Kurt strangled his screams into his pillow when he woke up. The nightmare had been brutal, just like the last one before it. He scrubbed his face with his hands and winced at the sheen of sweat he felt; this would require some severe scrubbing in the shower before dressing – not one drop of this grime would touch his new Marc Jacobs trench coat. Of course, he knew the coat would most likely be dripping either slushie or dumpster filth by the end of the day, but it was the principal of the thing that counted. Kurt frowned as fragments of the dream drifted to the surface—a strange, oddly beautiful girl clad in nothing but a white shift and a blood-red cloak sprinting for her life from nothing through dark woods, and the eyes, always the eyes, black and dark and…

Kurt scrubbed his face viciously and got up to get dressed. School today he could handle, at the very least. He knew exactly what to expect from it.

**888**

"Dude, did you even sleep last night?" Sam asked when Kurt walked into the room.

"No," he said shortly. The pills weren't working and he knew from experience the more stressed he was, the less control he felt, the worse the nightmares got. Instead, he'd finished the entire mash-up project on his own, ignoring every last twitch of feeling or _otherness_ he'd felt the entire night. It wasn't the first all-nighter he'd pulled, but he was tired, angry, stressed, and more than a little ready to explode. His nerves still felt scraped raw from last night, and it had taken more bile than he'd expected to swallow just to make himself walk up the stairs into WMHS today. And if some of last night's argument had seeped into his song choices, well, Finn could go screw himself as far as Kurt was concerned—the rest of his life was falling apart, but he would _not_ let glee club be ruined for him as well. New Directions was his final escape from everything else, and when Kurt sang he could almost forget what was going on in the world around him, just for a moment…

Putting it out of his head and ignoring Sam's temporary concern, Kurt set the diorama up that he'd created for the costumes and some of the choreography he'd sketched out and the sheet music he'd printed out last night. The songs were fairly seamless, and he paused to be grateful for the cheap song-writing programs available on the internet to write out the sheet music for him.

"'Sup?" Puck demanded, strutting arrogantly into the room. Kurt rolled his eyes and ignored him as he waited for the other boys to file into the room. Finn gave him a wide berth and Kurt could have dissolved into hysterical laughter. What the hell was he going to do, _jump_ the other boy? Clenching his fists, Kurt turned and waited until the boys had sat down on the chairs he'd set up in the choir room for this. Thankfully none of them had ignored his text that had simply said _Choir room, before school. Mandatory._ They'd probably thought it was from Mr. Schue, or they would've ignored him.

"Since you're all apparently too obsessed with sex at the moment to actually work on the mash-up assignment," Kurt snapped, not bothering to reign himself in (and enjoying the look of surprise on Puck's face, secretly), "I decided to go ahead and do it myself. If we're actually going to beat the girls – which, honestly, considering that since from what I hear Rachel is refusing to participate in planning to make a statement we should be able to do fairly easily – we're going to have to actually _do_ this. I've already got costumes planned, I've got the songs, the music, and if you'd actually show up after school for twenty minutes today we could just knock the choreography out this afternoon."

It wasn't going to work, he could tell after three seconds of looking at their faces. He had honoured Finn's request, hadn't he? There was barely anything _faggy_ about the outfits, and it wasn't like the songs were by the Indigo Girls or anything…but it was probably just that _he'd_ done it, and god forbid that any of them actually took advice from a _faggot_. Kurt felt himself trembling and willed himself to stop as he waited for them to just come out with it.

Artie, to Kurt's surprised disgust, looked to Puck first before he turned and said "Um, Kurt, no offence or anything but shouldn't _we_ be the ones picking this out? Doing girl stuff isn't exactly the _opposite_ of what you do anyway." _One_, Kurt counted.

"Yeah – I mean, this is great, but this is a _team_ project," Finn grumbled. _Two_, Kurt continued. Apparently his comment about Finn's leadership abilities hadn't gone unheard.

"Exactly," Puck took up. He raked Kurt up and down with a sneer that, had Kurt actually been _feeling_ anything other than a raging sort of detachment from the room, would have been fairly impressive at emoting nothing but careless disgust. "Like I already said, we got this. Why don't you just go do something useful and, like, see what that Dalton place is all about? Running around in an all-boys school, you should fit _right_ in." _Three_. Kurt turned slowly and saw Sam and Mike having the grace to look apologetic…but they didn't say a word to help him, or to stand up to their fellows. Kurt nodded, almost like a confirmation.

There may not be an 'I' in 'team', but there sure as hell wasn't a fag in there either, and it was a lesson that Kurt vowed to himself that he would finally learn for good.

"Fine," he said quietly. He turned around, picked up the diorama he'd spent at least three hours on last night, folded it in half, and tossed it in the trash. He left them the sheet music, though; he hadn't written himself in a solo, so at least they'd have something to sing after the girls went next week.

"Kurt," Sam called, but Kurt was already out the door.

It was the strangest feeling; these last weeks, Kurt had thought he'd known detachment, but really what it was, was ice. He walked through the walls of the place he'd spent the last two years of his life—the lockers where he'd come out to Mercedes, what had at the time felt so spectacular and frightening and wonderful; the girls' bathroom where Tina and he had bonded between slushie washes; the auditorium where he'd tried to fit in with the others and feel like it was a home—and he felt…nothing. It was rather like living in a glass house, like he was just cut off from everyone and everything around him. Kurt thought that he could vaguely hear Karofsky saying something, maybe heard Mr. Schuester saying something to Karofsky. People avoided him, like they usually did; Kurt was the school fag and thus the plague carrier. Usually it bothered him. Now it just made it that much simpler to keep walking.

No one tried to stop him. He thought he heard the jocks saying something, but it just passed straight through him. He was completely see-through, completely invisible, and floating away from all of it. It was almost wonderful, if not a little horrifying. He registered that maybe he should be scared at how easy it was to walk out of that place without looking back, without worrying about his GPA or his attendance record or what anyone might think.

Instead he hopped in his car.

**888**

It took a few brief Google searches of the school's homepage for Kurt to throw together a sloppy imitation of the uniforms worn by the smiling faces on the front page and to get a map pulled up. It was going to be a bit of a drive, he noted, but he had the money for the gas. The drive might help him think, anyway – or at least to feel.

The feeling of punching the gas down when he hit the freeway was like an adrenaline rush; an intoxicated speed through a merry-go-round that was taking him farther and farther from Lima the higher the mark on his speedometer. Kurt wasn't exactly a speed demon, usually, but before he knew it he was pushing seventy-five and the numbers were still climbing. Kurt felt the tears going down his face but he couldn't figure out if they were sad or just…release. They felt cold, like everything, numb, and he had no idea what he was even going to do once he _got_ to Dalton Academy. He had an idea that it was vitally important, and he held on to that thread of _purpose_ with everything he had.

It took a shorter time than it should have to get there, and Kurt let out a breath when he parked his car. Dalton Academy was a massive, gorgeous, mansion-like structure that was only missing a few towers and ghosts to look like Hogwarts; the grounds were lush and gorgeous and Kurt thought he could spy a few smartly-dressed boys hurrying out of the oncoming winter coldness to get indoors. Taking a cue from them, Kurt hesitantly walked in, feeling…_something_ settling over him, that same indefinable _need_ to get here stirring in his belly. For just a moment, he had that overwhelming sensation of eyes on him again, but then it was gone, as if it hadn't happened. He found himself smiling slightly as he joined the crush of boys going down the hall.

He wasn't noticed, but it wasn't the same feeling as WMHS – people here weren't avoiding him, they just had places to be. He got a few friendly nods of hello from people who seemed to think they recognised him, and he nodded back to them, slightly stunned. They seemed to be going down the hallway toward an entrance lobby, and Kurt caught his breath as they reached the top of a marble staircase. It was almost like the stairs Rose had descended to find Jack in _Titanic_, and Kurt just for a moment imagined what it would be like to _be_ here, everyday, instead of the cold, smelly, wretched halls of McKinley. The idea stuck with him and wouldn't leave no matter how hard he wished it to.

There was a clock on the wall that read as 2:30; there was barely an hour left in the school day – where were all of these boys _going_?

A head of raven-dark hair, slicked back like a 1950's movie star, caught his attention and before Kurt could think better of it he tapped the boy on the shoulder. The other boy spun around, and Kurt's breath caught. The boy was _beautiful_, there was no other word for it – roughly Kurt's size, with amazingly expressive features and lush, kissable lips and Kurt took an involuntary step back up the stairs. It was almost disorienting, that rush of attraction, but underneath it all there was a vertiginous sense of _familiarity_, like he'd met the boy before—but that was utterly impossible. The feeling vanished after a moment, save for a few echoing remnants, and the boy gave him a quizzical stare.

"I'm sorry; I'm new here," Kurt fumbled. He didn't even believe himself, his voice sounded so off, but the other boy just nodded like this was a normal occurrence. He was staring right into Kurt's eyes, and it was somewhat disorienting, honestly – like he was seeing more in Kurt than Kurt was revealing, or…Kurt stopped himself and tried to focus. His thoughts were scattered, disoriented; he needed to _think_. "Where is everyone going? What's going on?"

"Oh, everyone's going to see an impromptu performance the Warblers are putting on. It's a pretty big deal on a boring afternoon around here," the boy said with a bit of a smirk that Kurt couldn't decipher. Then his words sank in, and he started.

"Wait, you mean that the glee club is, like, _cool_ in this place?" Kurt asked somewhat breathlessly. The boy shot him a slightly pitying look even more loaded than the smirk.

"The Warblers are like _rock stars_ in this place," he confirmed. Kurt stared. "I'm Blaine, by the way, new kid," the boy continued.

"Kurt," Kurt said dazedly. Blaine smiled and held out his hand, shaking Kurt's enthusiastically. "Come on, then, Kurt – I know a shortcut!" Before Kurt could so much as collect his thoughts, they were running in a whirlwind of movement like the very wind was at their feet, their hands clasped like a promise, and Kurt felt like his heart was trapped in his throat, so fragile it could break at any moment and at the same time strong enough to fly out of his chest.

When they reached a side room as lush as the rest of the school, Kurt felt his hand slip out of Blaine's and felt like a piece of electricity that had been sparking life inside of him had been removed. It was completely ridiculous, but the truest thing he'd felt in so long was that he had to fight himself from grabbing the other boy again. The entire room was stuffed with people waiting for the glee club to sing, and it was one of the most beautiful sights Kurt could think of. "I stick out like a sore thumb," he remarked, looking at the swanky blazers and ties of the boys around him. Reawakening to _feeling_ was starting to set in, and Kurt suddenly considered the fact that he was a spy from a rival glee club walking right into a room full of boys who might not exactly like that very much.

"Well, next time, don't forget your jacket, new kid, and you'll fit right in," Blaine said with a careless shrug, giving him a wink that took Kurt's breath away. He reached out and straightened Kurt's tie, looked right into his eyes and smiled, and then he stepped away – and into the ranks of the waiting Warblers. Kurt felt a stupid smile start on his lips, and then the Warblers started an a capella arrangement that sounded faintly familiar. Then Blaine took the lead, and Kurt felt like his heart was going to explode.

_You think I'm pretty, without any make-up on_

_You think I'm funny, when I tell the punch-line wrong_

_I know you get me, so I let my walls come down; down_

_Before you met me, I was alright, but things were kind of heavy_

_You brought me to life—now every February, you'll be my Valentine_

He was staring right into Kurt's eyes, and Kurt felt like a sailor reaching out towards a mermaid in the deepest oceans. The room erupted into cheers as the chorus started up, as the dancing started, as Blaine _pointed right at Kurt_ and no one _cared_. Kurt hadn't smiled so hard before in his entire life; he felt like Alice on the other side of the looking-glass and if he smiled any harder his entire face would _break_. He was trembling like a caged bird and there was something building in his chest that he hadn't felt in such a long time that he could have wept.

He joined in the applause when it ended; what else could he do? Blaine's eyes never left his, not once, and Kurt was caught like a bird in a serpent's trap. He fell.

**888**

"It's very…civilised of you to invite me for coffee before you beat me up for spying," Kurt remarked when he sat down. When the smiling Asian boy had approached him and asked to talk to him, Kurt had figured that the jig was up. Funnily enough, even though he knew what was most likely about to happen, he didn't regret a single minute of it. He was on the other end of a table in the school's café – which apparently was separate from the cafeteria, he noted in absent wonder at all of the coffee around him – while Blaine, Wes (the Asian boy), and David (a tall, oddly statuesque black boy) sat on the other side, regarding him.

"We're not here to beat you up," David said, his voice echoing pleasantly like it had when he had introduced himself.

"You were a fairly terrible spy. It was kind of endearing," Wes remarked. They were all smiling at him, and Kurt just felt…lost. Aggression he was used to – he didn't have a rule in his head for how to respond to this. Blaine's eyes met his again, and Kurt just vomited out the one thing that he wanted to say without even thinking about it.

"I know this is going to sound…Are you all gay?" Kurt asked, then immediately regretted it. Wes frowned at him, but to Kurt's astonishment Blaine and David just _laughed_.

"No, we aren't all gay," Blaine commented. "Well, _I_ am, but these two both have girlfriends, and so do most of the Warblers," he continued, and Kurt's heart went into overdrive. Blaine was _gay_, and he didn't _care_ if anyone else knew it either. Kurt had _never_ met _anyone_ who was that comfortable saying those words before, not even himself, and his fists involuntarily clenched on his coffee. "Everyone here is really cool about it all; Dalton has a strict no-tolerance bullying policy, you know," Blaine continued casually.

Kurt crumbled. It was one of the most painful sentences he had ever heard in his entire life, oddly enough – that this place _existed_, it was _real_, and he was on the outside looking in. When this day was over, he would have to return to McKinley while this beautiful, _beautiful_ boy would stay here in this Wonderland that Kurt felt slipping more and more out of his reach. He'd never known tears to fall down his face that fast before; every last ounce of control that he'd tried to hold on to these last few days finally just snapped, and he slumped down in his seat.

"Guys, could you give us a moment?" Blaine suggested. Wes and David nodded to him politely on their way out, and then the two of them were alone in the room. Kurt whispered an apology as he rooted for his handkerchief, trying to erase the evidence of his weakness.

"You have _nothing_ to be sorry about," Blaine said strongly. His voice was rich and warm but oddly adult, almost like Kurt was talking to someone much older than himself. It was sort of soothing. "I take it that you've been having a hard time at school?"

Kurt felt a disgustingly loud snort of laughter escape his throat and he choked the rest back. "You could say that," he allowed after a moment. Blaine nodded, his eyes sympathetic, his face open, and before Kurt knew it he was spilling it out. "It's been…_horrible_…and no one seems to notice or to _care_," he bit out, each word feeling like it was being ripped out of this wretched place within him that wanted nothing more than to scream and cry and destroy everything around him so that someone, _anyone_ could look at him and realise that _no_, he was _not_ okay. "And on top of all of the rest of that…_place_, there's this…_Neanderthal_ who's made it his mission in life to make mine a living _hell_, and…I don't _know what to do anymore_." Kurt buried his face in his hands.

For what felt like an eternity, he just trembled, until a hand lightly touched his back. He looked up and started with surprise when he realised that Blaine had moved, was sitting next to him, touching him, unafraid, and Kurt froze. "You know, I didn't always go here. I had the same problems at my old school. And some of the teachers were sympathetic, but they never did anything about it. The attitude seemed to be, if you're gay, your life is going to be terrible." Kurt nodded bitterly. "The jocks at my old school used to pick on me a lot," Blaine continued. "After a while, I transferred here. Now, I'd love to be able to tell you that everything in life is as easy as transferring to Dalton, but the tuition here is steep." He nudged Kurt and Kurt felt himself smiling just a little as he nudged back. It felt almost _flirtatious_, and the idea made him catch his breath.

"But," Blaine said, drawing Kurt back to Earth, "the truth is, I ran – and you don't have to. You can refuse to be the victim anymore, Kurt. You look like you're my age. You've dealt with it for so long. You're strong, Kurt, incredibly strong, and you have the chance to fight back. I ran and I never confronted my tormentors, and I regret it every day of my life. You can _fight back_." Blaine was staring deep into Kurt's eyes, and Kurt understood exactly what Blaine was saying, oddly enough, like he was speaking it straight into Kurt's subconscious. It didn't matter that Karofsky was enormous and mean, that Kurt was small. He could fight back – he _should_.

Blaine smiled, and Kurt's world tilted. "Here, what's your phone number?" Blaine asked, and Kurt gave it to him. Blaine took Kurt's phone number and called it, then saved his number into Kurt's phone for him. "Here: this is my number. Anytime you need to talk, call me – it doesn't matter when. I'll answer for you, Kurt. You're not alone anymore. Trust me."

**888**

Kurt floated home on a cloud.

"How was school today?" Burt grunted when Kurt walked in.

"Wonderful," Kurt chorused, and Burt stared at him in something like shock. "I'm not really hungry, dad, but I can cook if you like."

"Um…no, I think I'll be okay," he said slowly. Kurt nodded without much notice and headed downstairs. On the way home, his phone had buzzed with a new text, and the call sign said 'Blaine.' It had just one word: **Courage**. Kurt smiled as he took out his phone and read it again, before he practically skipped to his computer and looked up the Warblers' section of the Dalton Academy website, finding Blaine's picture. He smiled as he sent it to his phone and saved it as a picture for the contact, then printed out another one for good measure.

Hauling out his old Vogue issues that had been ravaged for collages in various projects, Kurt pulled out some of his favourites – where he'd found his most daring outfits, where he'd stitched together his performance of "Le Jazz Hot" when no one would partner with him for the duets week. He clipped and glued and when he was done, he smiled. This was his now – something that no one at school could take away from him, not anymore. Blaine's face smiled at him crookedly charming above C O U R A G E spelt out for the world to see. Kurt thought for just a second he felt eyes on him again, but he shrugged it off. He wasn't going to be scared of everything anymore.

**888**

Three days of courage like a mantra and Kurt was flying. He floated through school in a cloud, but this time not of ice. When the slushies flew, he was drinking hot coffee in a cosy corner of a boarding school; when various slurs were called out he was being welcomed to a Warbler performance; when he was shoved, he pictured Blaine's smile and he picked himself back up again and showed no pain. Karofsky seemed to be getting angrier and angrier, but Kurt didn't _care_, because he finally had this thing that was just _his_ and couldn't be taken away from him, not _ever_.

In the hallways, Kurt touched the poster he'd made for himself in his locker and returned the smile to his face. He went back to his loner practice in middle school and took his headphones with him everywhere, ignoring the world. If Katy Perry happened to pop up on his iPod a few times more than usual, well, then, she was very popular now wasn't she? Kurt smirked and bounced down the halls, deftly dodging a locker shove like he hadn't done in months.

The first phone conversation had happened the following night. His phone had gone off and it had said 'Blaine.' Kurt had excused himself from the kitchen table to take the call, which had lasted almost two hours. Blaine had asked odd questions. Things like Kurt's favourite colour, his favourite music, subjects at school, his glee club, his family, things about himself that Kurt didn't give much thought to but…they'd talked and talked, and Kurt felt like he'd been drawn into something bigger than himself. It was a giddy, whirlwind sort of feeling.

When his phone buzzed during class it was usually Blaine now, sending him a thought, a question, or another message of **Courage**. He felt _consumed_ by Blaine, almost like the main character of a _Twilight_ novel, which was something he'd always scoffed at before – but Blaine was like a _lifeline_, a lighthouse in a dark sea, and Kurt didn't know how else to explain how he was feeling. When the girls performed a mash-up (somewhat mediocre, Kurt observed) of "Livin' on a Prayer" and "Start Me Up," he couldn't even concentrate on it. His phone had buzzed again, and there was another text. His smile felt like it could light the Milky Way.

When it was over, he skipped out without a word, smiling to himself as he made his way to his locker. He didn't even really need to stop, but he wanted to see Blaine's face again, almost like a compulsion. He didn't even _see_ the jock's lumbering form until the fist connected with his back, and then he was slamming into the locker so hard it took his breath away. Karofsky glared at him with dark eyes so full of hatred that Kurt froze. But this time there wasn't ice. This time, there was _rage_.

"_Excuse_ me, Karofsky!" Kurt yelled, and the hallway seemed to freeze. "What the _hell_ is your _problem_?" Karofsky turned away from him and set off on a fast clip, but as one Mercedes Jones would say, _**hell**__ to the __**no**_. Kurt stood, thought of courage, and stormed after him. There would be no backing down – not this time, not anymore.

Karofsky disappeared into the locker room, and Kurt kicked the door open, slamming it against the wall hard and stalking into the room like _he_ was the aggressor. It felt…_good_. His fists clenched. Karofsky jerked around to stare at him, and Kurt was rewarded with a supremely uncomfortable look. They were alone, and Kurt was going to be _heard_.

"_Hey_," he snapped, feeling lighter than air. "I'm talking to you!"

"Girls' locker room is _next door_," Karofsky growled after a moment, pathetically. Kurt took another step into the room, owning it like a stage. This was his moment.

"What is your problem?" Kurt demanded.

"Excuse me?" Karofsky asked, taking a step toward him. Kurt didn't step back.

"What are you so afraid of?" he raged.

"Besides you sneaking in here to peek at my junk?" Karofsky asked with a sneer, but it was lacking the power or the…darkness that he'd been carrying with him the last few weeks. Kurt was obviously getting to him – _good_.

"Oh, yeah, every straight guy's nightmare: that all of us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you," Kurt sneered, thinking of Finn. It was the first time that he'd actually said that he was gay out loud to a jock's face, and he thought of Blaine when he did it. "Well guess what, ham hock? You're not my _type_," he continued.

"That right?" Karofsky asked, suddenly deathly quiet, but Kurt was too far gone to notice. Inside, he was _singing_; something was building and it would not be silenced until this was over.

"Yeah. I don't _dig_ on chubby boys who sweat too much and are going to be bald by the time they're thirty," Kurt tossed out brutally.

"Don't push me, Hummel," Karofsky said angrily, taking a step forward.

"Or _what_?" Kurt demanded, thinking of every bruise he'd lived through at the hands of this beast. "You're going to _hit_ me? _Do it_!"

"Don't _push me_!" Karofsky hollered, his fist going up, and Kurt surged forward fearlessly. He was _flying_, defying gravity even!

"_Hit_ me, because it's not going to change what I am! You can't punch the gay out of me anymore than I could _ever_ punch the _ignoramus_ out of _you_!"

"_Get out of my face_!" Karofsky yelled, looking almost panicked, and Kurt dared everything and stepped forward, pushing Karofsky back, right in his face.

"You are _nothing_ but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily _ordinary_ you are!"

Then the world ended.

**8**

_It all happened in something of a blur. Kurt felt the memories fracture like a broken mirror, and he never could see the entire thing, no matter how hard he tried. What he felt was the sweat on Karofsky's hands as they held him trapped, a caged bird striving for freedom._

_The darkening of the room when Karofsky leaned close, blocking out the light._

_The bruising force of it all; how he couldn't escape from it._

_The kiss. His first kiss. It felt like rape—wanting, taking, needing, having, everything that Kurt could not give, would not give—_

_The second try._

_The push._

_Karofsky shoved away from him with a force that Kurt did not possess. The dent in the lockers; the shuddering of the room; the crowd of people wandering in to see what had happened._

_The both of them staring at each other, Kurt staring at his hands._

_The phantom returning to whisper into Kurt's ear; the sensation of hands on Kurt's face; the nausea that the haunting feeling induced, every time._

_His footsteps as he ran._

**Epilogue**

The problem with insanity is that it's uncontrollable. Kurt had never felt comfortable with things that he couldn't see or touch or quantify. His hands were trembling like dead leaves clinging to the cruel talons of an autumn wood and his breath was coming in short gasps; that awful, familiar band of cold steel was constricting round his heart and Kurt fought like a caged animal against the urge to hyperventilate. _Remember the rules_, he told himself flatly. _Stop. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The first Fibonacci string is 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8…_

With the first breath, Kurt felt a small piece of the panic attack start to slip away. _13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144…_ Around the edges of his vision, he felt the world around him waver slightly with a reddish haze; it was almost like the molecules in the air around him understood the basic mathematical formulae to the formation of the world that Kurt was chanting, and they began to excite themselves into something like life. _Quantum physics and mechanics: the theory that each form of psychic manipulation of the supercomputer that is the human brain results in a molecular reaction of energy—linked to Newton's Laws of Motion that states that any physical action results in an equal and opposite reaction_. Kurt closed his eyes and exhaled.

What felt like a rush of blood to the head hit him out of nowhere like some kind of freight train, and Kurt jerked back dizzily, opened his eyes, and froze in horror. There was a man standing in front of him, staring right into his eyes. The man was tall and savagely good-looking, with skin pale as a vampire and eyes black like a doll; staring at him predatorily, masterfully. Kurt _knew_ those eyes – the eyes that had been stalking his dreams, stalking _him_, for as long as he could remember. The man could _not_ be here; the man did _not exist_. The thing leaned towards him and Kurt reeled back in a wave of nausea but he couldn't _move_—he was trapped in an endless wave of his own vertigo. Those eyes burned through him and then…

"_**Hello, Kurt."**_

…and the world exploded.


	3. Part II:  Wandering Child

Glee

_The Hollow Men, Part II_

_(Wandering Child)_

_**Phantom:**__ Wandering child, so lost, so helpless_

_Yearning for my guidance…_

_**Christine:**__ Angel or Father? Friend or Phantom?_

_Who is it there, staring?_

_**Phantom:**__ Have you forgotten your Angel…?_

_**Christine:**__ Angel, oh speak! What endless longings_

_Echo in this whisper!_

_**Phantom:**__ Too long you've wandered in winter_

_Far from my fathering gaze…_

_**Christine:**__ Wildly my mind beats against you!_

_**Phantom:**__ You resist—_

_**Duet:**__ Yet the soul obeys!_

_Angel of Music, I denied you | You denied me!_

_Turning from true beauty!_

_Angel of Music, my protector | Do not shun me!_

_Come to me, strange Angel…_

—from "Wandering Child" (_from "The Phantom of the Opera"_)

_Twisted every way – what answer can I give?_

_Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?_

_Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice?_

_Do I become his prey? Do I have any choice?_

_He kills without a thought – he murders all that's good_

_I know I can't refuse…and yet, I wish I could!_

_Oh, God, if I agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom's Opera?_

—from "Twisted Every Way" (_from "The Phantom of the Opera"_)

"_No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed."_

—from "Possession" by A. S. Byatt

**Prelude.**

_Famous places, far-off places, trinkets I can buy_

_No handsome stranger, petty danger, drug that I can try_

_No Ferris Wheel, no heart to steal, no laughter in the dark_

_No one-night-stand, no far-off land, no fire that I can spark_

_The face of you—my substitute for love_

_Should I wait for you? My substitute for love?_

_My substitute for love…_

Kurt was a singing child; she'd heard him while he was still in the womb. Elizabeth thought about that tranquil time, all to herself, as she gazed down at her sleeping baby. It had been a long pregnancy – nearly eleven full months. She had refused to let the doctor's induce her, despite Burt's worrywart nature. She chuckled softly. Her husband was sound asleep a few doors down. The nursery she had done up herself, in soft blues like the ocean of the island she'd grown up on as a child. Elizabeth swore to herself that one day, Kurt _and_ Burt would see it…but later, when she was ready. She hadn't set foot there since leaving to see the world and meeting a lonely, lovely mechanic one midsummer's eve.

Kurt had her eyes, and her colouring, but his father's serious features – he was intensely focussed, for a babe. The doctor's had noted that his eyes were more developed than they'd expected, but Elizabeth had expected nothing less. Kurt was her son; she'd carried him from inception to his birth. She knew that he would be just like her because she knew him better than any other person in this world.

"One day, little one," she whispered, staring down into the cradle where he slept, "I will teach you all of the constellations and give you each and every one. I'll show you where to bury the old boot in the yard to keep away the insects, and how to whisper to the roses so that they'll grow."

It would be lonely, of course – all children like them were, on some level. She had found Burt, though, and she had faith that Kurt would find someone to love him. But it would be a hard road to get there. There was so much cruelty in this world, but Elizabeth would raise him to defy that. She would show him that the cruelties of the world were merely a cold mask for the burning love beneath it all; something she had glimpsed on nights of the full moon when she had lain out in the tall grass, rubbing her swollen belly with a secret smile on her face.

Burt knew, of course; he was a perceptive man. Her mother would never have approved. Elizabeth laughed softly, making sure that all of the nightlights were on as she wrapped her silky white robe tighter around herself, heading toward her bedroom. Burt would know that their son was different, in more ways than one. But she'd seen also the _look_ on Burt's face when he held Kurt in his arms for the first time, and she knew that no matter what happened, Kurt would be loved – and to any mother, _that_ was everything.

**Prologue.**

**1347—England**

_Amelia was thirteen years old when she watched her mother burn to death._

_They had told her that her mother was a witch, an evil sorceress, and had forced her to watch as she was lashed to a pyre and screamed for mercy, for help. There was none forthcoming. There were jeers and hatred and satisfaction. The villagers had crowded as close as they dared to the heat, while the churchmen watched with grim satisfaction as all that was left of a beautiful and powerful woman was ash. Amelia had been a child until that day. That day, she became a woman. That day, she learnt to hate – she hated them all, with all of her heart and soul, and she knew then that she would do whatever it took to make them feel the pain that she felt, to understand what they had took from her._

_Amelia had seen only ten winters when she and her mother, Alice, had settled in the small village in the northern hills of Britain. They were both tall, and pale, with brilliant copper hair and eyes that flashed with knowledge. The villagers hadn't known what to make of them. Alice was a healer. She came to the village with knowledge of the midwife and of herbs and simples, and knowledge from the earth itself that Amelia was only just beginning to learn. She had seen her mother encourage plants to grow by speaking to them, and had once seen her mother convince a serpent to turn its teeth away from them when they were gathering herbs. Alice could make their fire rise or lower by focussing on it, and knew the ways of moving things with her eyes._

_They had once lived in Ireland, until things had gone badly for them there with the church. They had had to run. Amelia missed her home very much, and had asked her mother if the churches spoke true – were they witches? "That is their name for us, my love," Alice had said after a moment. "But they do not understand what we are – we are only those who can see what they cannot see. For that they say that we worship devils and perform great evils. Do you worship a devil, Amelia?"_

"_No!" Amelia had cried. The churches were frightening places, with the angry old men behind the pulpit screaming of damnation and horned demons come to tempt a woman to the fires of hell._

"_Then you are not a witch, and neither am I," Alice had said firmly, and Amelia had not asked the question again. The church had seen fit to disagree with the both of them, though. They had not liked that the villagers went to Alice for answers to questions, that Alice's garden always grew and that she shared her vegetables with neighbours in hard times. They certainly had not liked that Alice remained unmarried with a child of her own. Amelia had once heard Alice explaining firmly to a churchman that she had once been married to a man, but that tragedy had struck him at sea and that her heart would never belong to another. The churchman had claimed that women left on their own sought only trouble and the devil._

_Amelia hadn't known her father well – only that he was a fisherman with an uncanny connection to the sea. His death had been blamed on mermaids, on the vengeful gods of the sea rising to take his own back. They had said that Amelia was a siren and that Alice was a witch, and that the whole family had brought bad luck on the town. The night after his funeral, Alice had taken a bag she'd packed before Amelia had known what she was doing, and they'd ran. She had been six years old at the time._

_It was after that conversation with the churchman – a man, Amelia would learn later, who had lusted greatly after her mother – that Alice's motives were no longer seen as pure amongst the villagers. They had turned on her at once. Times were hard, the earth unwilling to yield fruit, and many livestock had gotten sickly. These were all laid at the feet of Alice. Amelia had wondered bitterly during the trials of her mother, if Alice was such a powerful witch, could she not just magic herself away from the jail?_

_When the burning was over, her mother's chief accuser had come to her and clasped her shoulders. Amelia knew, the way that she and her mother had known many things, that he was an evil man at heart. "Your mother was an evil witch and a harridan. You will come to live with me, where I will teach you to avoid her ways." He looked her in the eye, and from behind his sight she saw to the truth of things – that she had the same eyes, the same hair, the same skin as her mother, and soon the same breasts and hips as well. She recoiled from the man and spat at him._

"_I would rather die!"_

_The man reached out for her again, and she imagined fire clawing at his hands and at once he withdrew from her, staring at her in horror. "You shall never touch me again," Amelia declared. Before he could say anything, she ran toward the woods. It was there that Alice had hidden the book of their family's secrets, when the rumours had first begun to circle the town. Amelia knew that in the book lay the one thing she sought above all others: revenge._

_In that book lay a chapter forbidden to Amelia, though she knew of its existence. It was a guide to summon a spirit. "You must never do this, Amelia – spirits are unknowable creatures, forces of the earth and air around us. Some were worshipped as gods. Some think and feel as we do; some feel not at all and thirst only for destruction. It is only through _us_ and those like us that they can feel life. If you do not know exactly what you are doing or fail to retain control over the thing that you have summoned, things can go horribly wrong."_

_It was one year before Amelia emerged from the woods again. That day, no one from the village escaped with their life._

_Not even her._

**2003—Lima, Ohio**

_It had been more than half a year since Kurt Hummel had spoken a word._

_Losing Elizabeth had been harder that Burt had ever thought that he could bear, but watching his son suffer as well was making his heart feel as if it would never be whole again. So the doctors' visits had begun. Finding Dr Shane had felt like a godsend, until she had suggested that he allow Kurt to stay over a weekend in a god damn mental institution. "My son is depressed; he isn't insane!" Burt had snarled, jerking back from the table. She had only regarded him with easy grey eyes._

"_Mr. Hummel, getting your son out of the environment where he is surrounded by memories of his mother is likely the best way to see why he has refused to speak, particularly to you. It's entirely up to you, of course, but before you decide I'd like to show you something." She'd led him down a hall, to a brightly painted room where children were playing. "This is the children's ward. We deal with everything from boys like your son to the more extreme forms of autism that are beyond a parent's ability to help with. I promise you, you won't return to find Kurt screaming his innards out in a straightjacket."_

_That weekend had been hell for Burt. Ever since the funeral, he'd spent every night getting Kurt ready for bed and watching over him until he fell asleep. He soothed away any nightmares his boy had had. Yeah, they didn't really understand each other yet, but that didn't bother Burt. Kurt was his son, and the very last piece of Elizabeth he had left. But the more he watched Kurt, the more distant the boy became; the more he tried to shelter him the worse the nightmares seemed to get, and the sleepwalking – if that was even what was happening. If he could help his son, he _had_ to._

_That next Monday, he went in for his appointment with Dr Shane before he picked his boy back up. She was waiting for him behind her desk, with an extremely odd expression on her face. Filled with a sudden sense of foreboding, Burt sat in his usual seat and waited._

"_Burt, exactly how long has Kurt had an imaginary friend?" she asked unexpectedly._

"_Um…you mean Leomaris? As long as I can remember, actually," Burt said, confused. "What does that have to do with anything?"_

"_Fairly unusual name, don't you think?" Dr Shane continued. Burt stared at her, and she sighed. "Burt…Kurt's nearly eight years old. He hasn't been speaking to you because he's having fully realised conversations with this imaginary friend. It isn't healthy for a child his age."_

"_Kurt…doesn't fit in, at school. He doesn't have any other friends to talk to. Eliza…Elizabeth told me we didn't have anything to worry about," Burt said stubbornly._

"_That isn't all, Burt," Dr Shane commented. "Kurt makes the other children nervous. He's very insightful, when he's listening. Some of the other boys in his room have become convinced that he can read minds, and that this Leomaris character can move things and find things – and hurt them. Kurt's told me about some of his nightmares – a girl watching her mother burned at the stake? How could a child his age know anything about the European witch trials? He seems to have bonded Leomaris into this story, fitting him in as a spirit of vengeance on the town that took the girl's life."_

"_What the hell are you saying? Where did you come up with this?" Burt demanded._

"_Burt – your son obviously has an overactive imagination; that goes without saying. But I think that it's become very clear that his mother's death has affected him very hard, and that he has no idea how to cope with this so he's retreating into the fantasy worlds that it seems she helped him to create. It's very unhealthy, the amount of…energy expended on an imaginary friend. I've never seen a manifestation quite like this." She rearranged some papers on her desk and handed them over to him._

"_I want to start Kurt on a very mild medication to stabilise his moods and his thinking," she said bluntly. "And I want you to start taking him to work with you. He's exceptionally bright, so getting him into smaller, higher-level classes where teachers can work with him shouldn't be difficult. I want you to begin systematically forcing him into the real world. I'll work on exorcising the spirit in here, as it were."_

"_These are anti-psychotics," Burt said hollowly, skimming through the report._

"_Exactly. But don't think about it quite like that, Burt. Think about it like this: what's the real goal of any psychiatrist?"_

"_What's that?" Burt asked._

"_Never having to see her patients again," Dr Shane said wryly. "I want Kurt to get well enough that I'm only a vague memory when he thinks of his childhood. With your help, we can get him there. The only obstacle now is getting rid of Leomaris."_

**Part II.**

_2010—Lima, Ohio_

_Listen as the wind blows_

_From across the great divide_

_Voices trapped in yearning_

_Memories trapped in time_

_The night is my companion_

_And solitude my guide_

_Would I stay for ever here_

_And not be satisfied?_

_And I would be the one_

_To hold you down_

_Kiss you so hard_

_I'll take your breath away_

_And after I'd_

_Wipe away the tears_

_Just close your eyes, dear_

_I'll hold you down_

_Kiss you so hard_

_I'll take your breath away…_

—from "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan

_**Before**_

Sam Evans had never once regretted moving to Lima. He had thought that he would've missed his friends at the Dayton School for Boys, but things were so much better here! Okay, the popular crowd were serious dicks here, but they were at most schools and he already had a spot on the team as an alternate quarterback if his shoulder ever healed up right (the doctors were totally saying it was, which, _sweet_). Not to mention: Quinn Fabray. She was worth every move, in Sam's opinion. He knew that she could totally play the frost queen bitch if she had to, but underneath that the girl that he was getting to know was incredibly sweet, caring, and fierce. She got his heart thumping every time she walked down the halls, even the days she wasn't in her skimpy cheer outfit, and if that wasn't love in high school no one could tell him what was.

Quinn was the first (and so far the only) person this side of Ohio that Sam had come out to as bi. She'd been a little leery at first, once they'd got over the 'is this a joke' conversation (and Sam had a weird sense of humour he'd been told, but that would be one bad joke). "Sam…_why_ are you telling me this? Is there…someone else? Do you _want_ there to be someone else?" Quinn had asked, looking at him across the BreadstiX table uncertainly.

"No! No way, totally, absolutely no way ever!" Sam protested quickly, reaching across to take her hands in his. His promise ring was warm under his touch and he felt a rush of crazy happy when he remembered her taking the ring from him. "I just…you told me about Beth, right? And you totally didn't have to, because I understand how that would be no part of my business, right?" Quinn's eyes clouded slightly as she hesitantly nodded. Sam regretted bringing up the baby as soon as he said it; the night that Quinn had finally told him about her affair with Puckerman and the resulting fallout had been a hard one for them, especially with Puckerman returning to McKinley. He kept going quickly. "It's just…we had to move and I was going to have to switch schools anyway because I was outed at my last school. I'd broken up with a girl and one of my buddies and I had this…thing. We weren't really _doing_ anything but we'd both had pretty crappy weeks and things just kind of happened. I was a jock, so I didn't have much happen to me other than losing all my friends, but he got beat up pretty bad. When my dad got the job offer to move, we took it real quick. They didn't tell me, but I know my parents thought that getting me to a different school would help things.

"After you told me about Beth, I knew that I wanted to tell you something about me that I would only share with you," he finished anxiously. "And I know that a lot of people say that bi kids are only trying to cheat, or want two at once, or we're just trying to get attention, but I only want to be with you, Quinn, you've gotta believe me, and—" He was rather pleasantly interrupted by her kissing him to shut him up.

"Sam, you don't have to explain anything. If there's either of the two of us that has reason to be suspicious of someone's dating past, it's you for me," Quinn said wryly. "I know that you wouldn't just tell me this to tell me this – I was just kind of afraid that you were going to tell me you'd rather be sitting here with _Kurt_ instead of me."

"Nah," Sam laughed. "I mean, don't get me wrong, he's cute and all, but he's not really my type, and…I don't want to sound mean, but I was really happy when I switched from him to you for the duets competition."

"Why didn't you tell him about this?" Quinn asked curiously.

"Well…he sort of seems like he's got enough to deal with without my baggage. And after I saw how people get treated here just for being in glee club, I didn't even want to say the words 'I sometimes like boys' in that school. I kept picturing Karofsky pulling a Nightcrawler and popping out of thin air to get me."

"Um…I have no idea what that meant, but I think I understand," Quinn said. Sam winced. A weekend movie-fest was going to have to happen, and soon. She seemed to be mulling something over for a moment, before she took a sip of her water. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Sam agreed cheerfully.

"_Did_ you ever…you know, _like_ Kurt, when you first came here?" she asked. "Not that I'm trying to accuse you of anything. I'm just kind of curious."

"Uh…yeah, actually. I mean, I didn't have a full on crush on him or anything, but he's really cute and he's actually cool, in a really weird sort of way. But…I don't know how to say it, really," Sam said, embarrassed. Quinn's eyes narrowed. "He's sort of…weird. I don't mean like the clothes or anything, either; I mean…there's just something _off_ about him, I think, sometimes. I think he's cool and I'm glad that we're friends, but…"

"Sam, can I ask you to help me with something?" Quinn asked, pausing as their waitress stopped by to refill their drinks. Sam nodded, picking at his salad. He wasn't sure if he'd given her the right answer. Yeah, Sam had _totally_ been thinking about Kurt when he'd first showed up at McKinley – no one had had to tell him that Kurt was gay, after all; Kurt was about as far in the closet as the Joker was a good guy. But those first few conversations he'd had with him…Sam tried to play it off, but it was always like there was something _warning_ him about Kurt, to just _stay away_ and _back off_. Sam could respect someone giving those signs themselves, but Kurt seemed genuinely bewildered sometimes why no one in the school stayed around him for long. If Sam could, he would help, but…

"You've noticed how…hard things are getting for Kurt, right?" Sam nodded fervently. That dude Karofsky was like, _possessed_ or something by the spirit of Darth Homophobe. "Well, I'm trying to keep an eye out for him, help him a little – if you could—"

"Oh, yeah, I'll totally help keep him out of trouble!" Sam agreed wholeheartedly. Lingering sensations of weirdness or not, no-one deserved the kind of crap that Kurt was getting shovelled with daily.

"Well, he gets a bit upset when people go out of their way to help him," Quinn said worriedly.

"No biggies!" Sam said quickly. "I'll totally be double-O about it all. I can get a martini, shaken, not stirred!"

When Quinn laughed, Sam felt like he was on top of the world.

Later, he'd think back to that night and wonder what he could have done differently to change the outcome. But what else could he have done? Things had happened the way that they'd happened, and he'd tried real hard to fight against them, hadn't he?

Hadn't he?

_**Now**_

"_**Hello, Kurt."**_

It was more than sound, it was _feeling _— power and presence and possessiveness and hatred and desire all rushing through Kurt's mind like he was being dragged over shattered glass. That fine thread of control Kurt had maintained with a tenuous grip finally snapped and Kurt just _screamed_. The sound was enormous, louder than anything he had ever before produced, and the spectre vanished in a rush of light. Kurt vaguely registered the mirror over his vanity cracking with a sound like gunfire as he staggered toward the bathroom.

But it wasn't over; hands brushed over his skin with a tingling sensation of a waking limb trailing in their wake—_Karofsky's brutish hands, slick with sweat, clenching, holding, imprisoning_—and Kurt yelled, strangled, choked, falling into the shower, and reaching blindly for the water dials—_lips taking more than Kurt could ever, ever, _ever_ give_. The warm water fell like soothing rain as Kurt shook hard, feeling like he was falling to pieces and that there was no way to ever put himself back together again. It felt like a voice, whispering into his mind every revealing outfit he'd ever warn around Karofsky, every time the jock had pressed too close when he'd shoved Kurt into a locker or tossed him into a dumpster.

And it wasn't just _that_ – the water beat down like self-loathing as he shuddered, rocking back and forth like a metronome as every slushie to the face and shove into a locker, as every humiliation and _pain_ ripped through him, as the entire school, as Mercedes and Quinn and everyone he knew just _watched_. Two years of pure torture every day in the halls of high school shot straight through him and fractured like a crystal prism, and just for that moment it was like there was no way out, no end to the pain…

_ You make me_

_ Feel like I'm living a_

_ Teenage dream…_

"NO!" Kurt roared, and it was almost like the entire house shook just for one brief terrifying moment…

And then it was over, and Kurt was just Kurt. He was trembling and sick and felt like he had just run a mile, but he wasn't hallucinating anymore. He'd had panic attacks like this for years, he reminded himself firmly. He had imagined things moving around him before. Of _course_ he would imagine hurting Karofsky instead of just pushing him back; the sick troglodyte had just molested him! It took several tries to get his hands to stop shaking long enough to turn the water off. He stopped, took a breath, and looked around him. _One bottle of shampoo. Two containers of skin treatment. One bottle of conditioner…_

As he catalogued, he breathed. The world shrunk down enough that he could shake himself and just _think_. _"The human imagination is powerful," Dr. Shane said calmly. "Sometimes nightmares cling to us long after we wake up, particularly when one suffers from panic attacks. It's not wholly uncommon for images that we imagine so vividly to stay with us in moments of anxiety."_ Kurt just breathed, in and out. What did it matter if his friends hadn't noticed that anything was wrong? He was stronger than the scared little boy trembling on the edge of that precipice just moments ago – stronger than imagining a man, or eyes, or phantom hands.

The problem with insanity, Kurt thought once more, was that it was uncontrollable. And the problem with being alone was that there was no one around to see you slipping. Kurt's head fell back and hit the shower's end with a wet _thud_. He was just so damn _tired…_

Before he could properly focus on what he was doing, Kurt started on autopilot. Peeling the wet clothes off himself, he towelled himself dry and headed into his bedroom. Giving the vanity a wide berth, he dressed as quickly and functionally as he could. If he let himself think, his mind revolved around two things. The first was that prickling sensation of _presence_ that had come to be his nighttimes' companion—which was _impossible_, just as the man in his room earlier could _not_ be real. Kurt shut that line of thought down savagely as he shoved his entire outfit from the day into a trash bag; he never wanted to wear those clothes again because they stank of Karofsky.

The other problem, of course, was what he was _about_ to do. He finally slowed down as he came to rest on the sofa and his finger hovered over the new contact listing in his phone. Sure, they'd texted sporadically, but no matter how Kurt tried to justify the picture in his locker he'd printed from Facebook as 'motivational,' the butterflies in his stomach were proving him a bad liar. And the frustrating thing about it all was how frighteningly _easy_ it was! Kurt _knew_ this feeling from an entire year's frustrated fixation on some fantastically imagined superhero version of Finn Hudson, and look where _that_ had led him! He was already deep enough in like as it was. What if he let himself play the fool once more and blindly rush in?

He closed his eyes and sighed. Who else could he call? Who else's voice had echoed in his mind like a life raft when… Smiling sadly to himself, Kurt took the leap, and pressed the button to call Blaine. Kurt's heart pounded as the ringing went through. What if Blaine didn't know what to do? But that was an almost alien thought. Blaine had acted throughout their meeting as if he were older than what he appeared, speaking with the strange cadence of one who was at the very least well-educated. Kurt wondered what he would do if Blaine actually _didn't_ know what to do. Who else could he call? He doubted very much if Quinn was willing to speak to him at the moment, and Mercedes certainly wouldn't be any help.

The thoughts were pushed out of his mind as the line was picked up, finally, just when he was sure that it would go straight to voicemail. "Hello?" Blaine's voice said gruffly, thick with sleep, and Kurt felt a small pulse of uncertainty – it was barely eight at night!

"Uh…hi?" Kurt said lamely, and instantly wanted to beat himself in the head. There was blank silence on the other end, and he tried again, a little more hesitantly this time. "Blaine? Were you sleeping?"

"Hmm?" Blaine muttered, and he sounded very much like someone who just…wasn't used to speaking. In fact, the entire tone of his voice had changed, almost imperceptibly. He didn't sound…_confident_. "Uh, yeah, I think I was." Really, it was kind of like he wasn't sure how talking on the phone worked. Kurt sat down on the couch. "Who's this?"

"It's…it's Kurt."

"Oh! Kurt! Hey!" Blaine exclaimed, and Kurt let out a tightly clenched breath he hadn't been aware he was holding; with the release of tension came a release of control and he was horrified to find that he was close to tears at the sheer warmth in Blaine's voice. "How are you?"

"I…" His hands were shaking.

"Kurt? Are you there? Are you okay?" Blaine asked, sounding much more awake. He was concerned, about _Kurt_, and Kurt took a deep, gasping breath and he could've _choked_ on the tears that were starting to come.

"_I don't know what to do anymore_," he finally whispered, and there was a very pregnant pause on the phone.

"Kurt, I'm coming over there," Blaine said firmly, and there was a deep panic in his voice, an urgency that had Kurt shaking in relief. "Where do you live?"

"You really don't have to—"

"_Where do you live_?" Blaine asked sharply. Kurt told him.

**888**

When Kurt opened the door, he barely had a moment to register how unbelievably _good-looking_ Blaine was before the other boy had surged forward and enveloped him in a fierce hug. It took Kurt completely by surprise and he froze, unused to the touch of another. Blaine was much stronger than he looked, because he knocked the breath right out of Kurt and he had to take a gasping breath. Blaine smelled of warm cinnamon, like coffee almost, and just the thought of that faerie-tale afternoon, of civilised conversation and genteel acceptance from a world he was forever barred from, and Kurt was starting to shake with suppressed tears. Blaine leaned back, moving awkwardly because he refused to let Kurt go, running his hands in soothing circles on Kurt's back.

"You use more hair gel than Mr. Schuester," Kurt said dumbly. It was the first thought that crossed his mind, other than that Blaine _must_ have some kind of twin because the boy before him was just that – a _boy_. Gone was that hypnotic, unreal _adultness_ that had unnerved Kurt before as much as it had drawn him in like a snake to a bird. Blaine had an old white _Harry Potter_ t-shirt on and pyjama pants; his face was warmly flushed with emotion; his brown eyes were warm as coffee on a cold day and his hair was a surprisingly appealing mass of curls that had Kurt wanting to run his hands through it. At Kurt's words, Blaine offered him a toothy smile that was all awkward warmth and dimples.

He looked so full of _hope_, then, that Kurt had the vaguest, most fantastical thought that Blaine wasn't real and was just as insubstantial as the horrific phantom stalking him through his days. It was that thought, that his final port in the storm that was his _life_ could be just another figment of his increasingly out of control imagination that broke the levee he'd tried so hard to build that afternoon. His face crumpled painfully, feeling like nothing more than brittle glass, and the tears came hot as a summer storm. The pity on Blaine's face was unbearable, and Kurt buried his face in the warm comfort of Blaine's embrace.

"Kurt," Blaine whispered after a moment, and Kurt snorted humourlessly as he realised they were rocking back and forth – his first dance with a boy, and it was _pity_. "Kurt, whatever's going on, you've got to know that you can't…let it do this to you. You can't just end things because of the bullies or thinking…" Kurt jerked back and gave Blaine a watery glare.

"I'm not going to kill myself," he tried to snap, tried to slip back into himself. Blaine gave him a look that was as piercing as any he'd ever received, and for reasons he didn't want to identify it made him blush to the roots of his hair.

"It's not always about that, Kurt. I heard you on the phone – I know what it is to be that alone. I know how much it hurts. And you need to know that no matter how dark things seem, there's _always_ a light at the end of the tunnel," Blaine said fervently. They were still holding each other, almost as awkward as young children at a school social trying to slow dance. The eye contact was intimate enough to make Kurt shiver – not even in a romantic way; Blaine was _looking_ at him, _seeing_ him in a way that he'd not been seen in such a long, long time that he felt almost like a dog starved for attention. How long had it been since he'd had a real _friend_? One that he felt he could let in?

"Blaine…"

"Why don't you tell me what upset you today, and we'll take it from there," Blaine suggested. Kurt felt one more of the tall, tower-like walls that he'd constructed around his heart start to tremble, just a little: weakness. That's what he'd always thought of letting other people in to the darker, bleaker side of himself. That wasn't _him_—he was Kurt Hummel, diva, fashion master, _star_, not just one more statistic on that long list of lonely gay teens so isolated from the hate-filled world around them that they lost all sight of the world around them. What Blaine was offering him was allowing another person a key into his mind, and it was a scary thing. Blaine could _hurt_ him, if he _knew_ him, something he'd learnt from Finn Hudson, if only by skimming the surface. Could he smash his heart on the jagged rocks of that icy ocean once more? Was it worth it?

Blaine had none of the adult pre-possession about him tonight: he was just another boy, so like Kurt and yet so completely different; there was a hint of optimism lurking around the warm chocolate of his eyes. His pretty mouth was used to smiling, quirking, amusement in general. Kurt's mouth seemed given to a future of wrinkle creams to fight the tensing tightness of trying to make it from day to day. Blaine was sunshine where Kurt was moonlight. If he did this, Blaine could _melt_ through the ice that he'd worked so, so hard to hide behind for so long…

But if he didn't do this, he was _lost_.

Mind made up, Kurt let Blaine in.

**8**

"That's horrible," Blaine said softly. They were still holding hands, though they were sitting on the couch down in Kurt's bedroom. They'd been talking for the last half an hour at least as Kurt methodically detailed every single escalation of David Karofsky's bullying, beginning with name-calling and joining in on the group dumpstering and slushying of the school's resident queer, and then escalating to stalking, hurting, hunting… By the time Kurt made it to the locker room, he was shaking with realisation. He was _terrified_ of Karofsky, and he had been for a while. Oddly enough, through the fear, he felt a pang of guilt – Quinn had seen it in his expression in homeroom that day he'd rejected her help. Had that been pride or some masochistic complex? Maybe he wasn't as alone as he'd thought…but then, she'd only been trying to help a situation that she'd been a distant part of creating now that she knew him. He couldn't _stand_ to be someone's guilt-project, much less bear her _pity_. He kept that to himself. Instead he forced himself to detail the Incident in the locker room, piece by piece.

He wouldn't—he _couldn't_—talk about the apparitions, the delusions, whatever. They were personal and private, and the idea of Blaine (who had surged forward and just _held_ him through every dumpster dive, slushie facial, house attack, slur, phone call…) looking at him like he was some kind of schizophrenic _freak_ was more than Kurt could handle at the moment. He stuck to the more immediate points. Blaine was looking at him again, and if he lacked some of the more entrancing…_adulthood_ charisma that he'd seemed to carry with him that faerie-tale like day at Dalton Academy, well, he was certainly perceptive. It had felt almost like an empathic link between the two of them; Blaine could practically anticipate Kurt's breakdowns like he was telepathic. It wasn't the most ridiculous thought he'd had this night, Kurt reflected wryly. If anything it had been almost like Blaine was drawing the poison of Kurt's darkness out of Kurt and into himself, sharing the burden and shouldering it. Presently he cocked his head slightly.

"I think there's part of this that you're angry about that you aren't telling me," he said after a moment. Kurt gave him a _look_ and Blaine _smirked_, teasing and unrepentant, and it did funny things to Kurt's stomach. He sighed and thought about Blaine's leading question and weighed it in his mind. Frowning, he nearly blushed, and Blaine gave him another searching look before once more almost presciently stating "I told you, Kurt, tonight's not about embarrassed. I'll never tell a soul about anything you've told me, _never_." _Damn him_, Kurt thought without heat.

"That…that _monster_, he stole my first kiss – my first _real_ kiss, when it counted. I've never been kissed before, and he…I can't ever take that back, you know? And I know that I sound like some _girl_ who lost her virginity, but…" he trailed off awkwardly. Blaine, thank…_whatever_, wasn't looking at him with pity, but understanding. That was different; that was a give and take that Kurt could work with easier. "I'm a romantic, Blaine – that's why I love Broadway so much. I don't know much about sex, and…I like old black and white movies where the sexiest it gets is the brush of bare fingers. I wanted to have my 'Sixteen Going on Seventeen' moment, and I'll never get it back because the first time I kiss a boy that I _want_ to kiss, I won't be able to _not_ think about this. And I want it _back_!"

This time the hug was a bit more expected; Blaine, Kurt had the sneaking suspicion, was one of those _touchy-feely_ types, and Kurt just wasn't _used_ to casual contact. The other boy had been sneaking in hugs and shoulder nudges and hand-holding all night, and it was doing the job; if anything, Kurt felt rather like he'd just soaked in a warm bath for an hour. It was a lovely, floating feeling.

"You know what you need?" Blaine asked after a moment.

"What?" Kurt asked woozily, his head cradled on Blaine's shoulder.

"Pie." Kurt sat back and arched one of his eyebrows, and Blaine waggled his eyebrows in some wretchedly pathetic _come hither_ movement that had them both collapsing in slightly hysterical giggles, and for the first time in such a long time Kurt had the ridiculously simple notion that it just might be _all right_, some day. "I'm serious. You said you like to cook, right? Well, I like to make messes in kitchens, and if I don't have you to supervise, you'll never get all the flour out!"

"You stay away from my spotless kitchen, Anderson, or I'll disable your car!" Kurt said warningly.

"Can't; took a taxi here!" Blaine said flippantly, and darted up the stairs. Kurt charged after him, wondering for just a moment where his father was, why he hadn't checked in. But he wasn't going to question this. This night was…magical, in a way that Kurt had never thought he'd feel. Maybe this _was_ his _Sound of Music_ moment – not the kiss, but…the sweetness. He fought back tears he couldn't entirely understand and joined Blaine in the kitchen.

Blaine had flipped something mellow on the iPod dock, and Kurt smiled when he recognised the song. Apt, but soft, and he could appreciate that. Stopping Blaine's overexcited movements, Kurt grinned and started getting all of his baking goods out. His dad could eat some of the pie, damn the diet and all. Kurt was in the mood to make something positively _diabetic_, to which Blaine enthusiastically agreed.

_I know that I'll get through this_

_I'm feeling stronger somehow_

_I've got my feet back on the ground_

_And I'm turning around_

_And I'll be everything you always said that I could be_

_If only you'll be waiting right here for me, patiently_

They talked while they weighed and measured and whisked. Kurt's favourite Broadway play, _Wicked_, was compared to Blaine's stalwart favourite _The Phantom of the Opera_. Blaine attempted to criticise Madonna's stellar performance as _Evita_ and Kurt evenly whacked him over the head with a wooden spoon to knock some sense back into him based entirely on her knockout readings of "A New Argentina" and "Rainbow High". Blaine compared some of _his_ favourite black and white's with some of Kurt's, comparing Bette Davis to Marilyn Monroe. They talked musicals from "Funny Girl" to "Singin' in the Rain," from "Avenue Q" to _Phantom_'s sequel "Love Never Dies" (Kurt admitting some songs were golden despite his overall dissatisfaction, Blaine loyally defending his characters to the end).

They threw food at each other and made a mess which Kurt made Blaine clean up while the pie baked, cracking as many off-colour jokes as they could imagine. They debated whether or not gays could 'own' the term _faggot_, or whether African-Americans could reclaim the n-word as they claimed or whether it was more degrading when both minorities used the euphemisms. They debated gay marriage and women's rights, gender politics and the pros and cons of living in a world of such insane political correctness for fear of offending someone. Blaine had studied religions from Wicca to Buddhism and maintained there was some sort of intelligent design. Kurt held fast to the theory of evolution and the Big Bang.

The pie – Dutch chocolate crème – was served with whipped cream and in slices big enough to make them sick, just because they could. They sat as close together as decency would allow, talking low enough that only they could be heard, a private world of sugar and sweetness unmarred by the ugliness of waking life.

_Oh, never would I take it back—_

_My heart was filled with love and I_

_Will wipe these tears and I will laugh_

_If only I could make it last…_

They talked about human decency and redemption, even for Karofsky, about scum like Perez Hilton's horrific 'outing' campaigns and the damage they caused. They drew an impossibly rosy blueprint for a future when two boys could fall in love in school and not one person in town would care because it wasn't even important enough to be _noticed_, let alone commented on. They talked about children, about dreams of life on the stage or on film or in a studio, about parents and pasts and crushes and when Kurt finally looked at the clock and it was almost four o'clock in the morning, he didn't even care.

When he finally went to sleep, Blaine's arms were wrapped around him like a cocoon, and Kurt finally, _finally_ understood why _Twilight_ wasn't _complete_ bullshit because he knew in that moment that he was, as Bella Swan had once admitted, that he was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Blaine Anderson.

_I'm breakin' at the cracks_

_And everything goes black_

_It's another heart attack_

_And I can't handle that_

_Oh, love, I need you back…_

**888**

When Quinn opened the door, she wasn't entirely shocked to see Puck on her doorstep. She sniffed suspiciously and was relieved when she didn't smell any alcohol. Taking a step back, she wordlessly admitted him to her home, taking a moment to be grateful that her mother wasn't home that night.

"Hey, Quinnie," Puck said hoarsely, like he'd been shouting most of the night.

"Noah," she returned evenly. He looked good, she had to give him that – that ridiculous Mohawk was firmly back in place, and he'd shaved and showered and dressed up a bit in tight jeans with no holes, a white t-shirt under a black leather jacket. For a vivid moment she remembered the scent of that leather underneath her when they kissed, and she sighed. This was exactly why she'd been dreading this, and also exactly why she knew that it was going to have to happen eventually.

"Quinn, what the hell are you doin' with Evans?" Puck demanded finally, glaring at her petulantly from her couch. If it was anyone else she would have accused them of pouting childishly, but this was Puck – any time he lived up to the idiot miscreant reputation he'd earned for himself, it really meant that he was just hiding.

"You broke up with _me_ before the school year let back in," Quinn said evenly. "Was I supposed to wait for you to decide to come back? Write you love letters in juvie?"

"We didn't break up!" Puck snapped. "We just…took a break, okay?"

"And I told you that I wasn't interested in taking a break," Quinn reminded him. "And I'm still not. I'm with Sam now, Puck."

"Then why did you let me in?" Puck challenged, and she winced. That was the heart of this whole thing, wasn't it? "I knew it," he crowed softly. "Baby—"

"Don't call me that, Puck," Quinn snapped. "Just because…it doesn't matter, okay? Sam is _good_ for me – he's too good _for_ me, and I'm hanging on as long as I can, alright?"

"No one's too good for you, Queen," Puck said, in that low, intimate voice he knew drove her crazy. She tried to glare at him, really, she did. "Especially me. But I know you. I know that you don't want that bland future in the middle class. I know that you want to get the hell out of here. The only thing holding you back from what you want is you – so tell me again, what the hell are you doing with Evans?"

"I really like him, Puck," she whispered, her fists clenched.

"You don't love him, though," Puck declared. When she didn't answer, he moved closer, and closer…

The kiss was like liquid fire on her lips. Kissing Noah Puckerman was like kissing whiskey – it removed your inhibitions, set you on fire, and left you wanting more without any real reason _why_. A million images of Beth and her pregnancy and everything that they had ever shared burnt through her mind, and Quinn gasped and jerked away from him. Puck looked like he'd been slapped.

"Noah, please…please go," she finally managed.

"Fine," Puck grated out, then he slammed his way out of the house, leaving destruction in his wake same as always. Quinn watched him go out of the window, her entire body still on fire. She'd _known_ what would happen if she let him in – Quinn had _always_ been like this around Puck. And she _liked_ Sam, she really did. He was smart when he let himself be and he was funny in a dorky kind of way, and he really cared about her…but he didn't set her on fire like this. He didn't make her sway between danger and passion with just one kiss. But was that enough to make a decision on?

Reaching for her phone, she tried to dial Kurt, but it just rang through to voicemail. She frowned; she hadn't actually _seen_ Kurt in a good two days, and it was only nine o'clock so there was no way that he was already asleep… She shook her head. There was too much going through her mind to try to puzzle out the increasing mystery of what was happening to Kurt – the mysteries of her own heart were enough.

She clicked through her iTunes library until she found a playlist that Kurt had exported to her of songs that she'd enjoy from his collection. The title of one caught her eye, and she hung her head. There was no way around this, or running away from it, or lying her way out of it – she'd learnt that lesson the hard way last year. Her eyes filling up, Quinn went to bed with a vague plan for tomorrow and no idea how it was all going to work out.

**888**

—_The arcane symbols were etched into the dirt, and Amelia was certain that they were correct; she had practiced and practiced. Her town thought her dead by now, certainly. They could never know of her life in the woods, sheltered by trees, conversing with animals, living off the land like a beast herself. But she had her mind. She had her burning desire for revenge. All that was left now was a sacrifice in blood: it was required, of course, to call forth a spirit of any kind. In the spirit world, they were immaterial. If they wished to gain the life for a witch to call for them, they required blood. Amelia called herself a witch now – perhaps because she was, or perhaps in defiance of the evil men who had stolen her mother's life. The spirit wanted blood? She would _give_ him blood—_

Kurt jerked awake with a start, clutching at his own hands. The dream had been even more vivid, and the disturbing part was that the story was continuing. He'd never seen beyond the burning of his dream girl's mother before. Scrubbing his face, Kurt turned over and sighed at the empty bed. It was almost like Blaine being there the night before had been nothing more than a dream…

"Good morning, Kurt," Blaine said from the doorway, and Kurt started violently.

"Make some noise when you walk!" Kurt snapped despite himself, and Blaine chuckled. But it sounded…off. Kurt looked up and did a double-take. Blaine was back in his Dalton uniform, his hair slicked back in that same old style, his eyes dark and his entire face lacking every trace of the easy warmth of last night. "Blaine?" he asked, for reasons he couldn't entirely comprehend. Blaine smiled at him. "Um…I thought we were skipping today?"

"Why would we do that?" Blaine said, sounding slightly confused. "Today is when we need to confront Karofsky."

"…confront Karofsky," Kurt echoed. He tossed the covers back and stood up, frowning when he realised he'd fell asleep in his clothes last night. Wrinkle removing was going to be a nightmare, not to mention the sweat. "Are you insane?" he continued conversationally. Blaine frowned at him, and Kurt frowned right back. "First off, assuming that everything we talked about last night was bullshit—" and he tried hard to keep the hurt from his voice here, but Blaine's expression told him he'd heard "—and that we'd actually _want_ to go to that place, you're suggesting that the two of _us_ confront an enormous, muscular, angry, intensely homophobic jock about hiding in the closet?"

"Kurt, why are you fighting me on this?" Blaine asked, coming down the stairs. Kurt took a step back before he could stop himself, and Blaine's face darkened. "You need to _stop_ fighting me on this."

"Don't tell me what to do," Kurt said coldly. He'd _known_ he was making a mistake last night, letting Blaine in the way that he had, and he struggled to put his walls back up.

"Kurt," Blaine said, and Kurt jumped at realising that the other boy was _right next to him_. How the hell was that possible? He hadn't even seen Blaine move. "Let's go to school, okay? Just…trust me."

"I'm not going," Kurt tried, but it sounded weaker than he would have liked. The room was starting to spin a little…

"_Kurt_." Blaine placed both hands on Kurt's face, and the world tilted.

**888**

"So, I know that we don't have an assignment this week," Quinn began. She'd really been hoping that Kurt would show up this morning, but he was absent again. She put the thought aside and regarded everyone in the room. She didn't know _why_ this had seemed like a good idea last night, but then, her time in New Directions was always a bit like that: dreamy, in a way. Singing let her express herself in ways that she couldn't fully explain, and if she couldn't even put into words to _Puck_ last night what she was feeling, how could she possibly talk to _Sam_? Sam himself was looking at her curiously. Puck's eyes were burning into her like lasers, and she sighed and took a moment to compose herself.

Mercedes and Tina were nodding at her encouragingly. Brittany was staring into space next to Artie, who was looking discomfited at the angry glares Santana was throwing their way. Mr. Schuester was listening to her intently, while Rachel had her arms crossed in a huff because Quinn was taking group time away from Rachel's planned meeting about sectionals. Finn was staring at her curiously as well, and she took a moment to think back to how she'd felt listening to this song last night, about Finn and Puck and Sam and every beating of her heart. She had to get this out, she _had_ to.

"But, Mr. Schue is always telling us to sing it out, and there's a song I'd like to share with you guys. I've been…really confused, lately, and this year has been kind of crazy for all of us I think," Quinn continued, her voice getting stronger as she kept going. "This song sort of hit the nail on the head for me, and, well…I think there are some people here who deserve to hear this." She turned to Brad and the band, nodding her head – it had been a bit hard to track down the sheet music for this online; it wasn't one of Madonna's more well-known hits. They nodded at her as she heard the whispers breaking out behind her, but she ignored them, waiting for the mournful, jazz-piano beat to start up, before she turned around, locked eyes with Sam, and started to sing.

_Something's missing and I don't know why_

_I always feel the need to hide my feelings from you_

_Is it me, or you that I'm afraid of?_

_I tell myself, I'll show you what I'm made of_

_Can't bring myself to let you go_

_Don't want to cause you any pain_

_But I love you just the same_

_And you'll always be my baby_

_In my heart, I know we've come apart_

_And I don't know where to start—_

_What can I do?_

_I don't want to feel blue…_

Quinn turned and licked her lips as her eyes slid to Finn, who was staring at her intently. Sam's eyes were wide and he was already looking uneasy as the chorus kicked in.

_Bad girl, drunk by six_

_Kissing someone else's lips_

_Smoked too many cigarettes today_

_I'm not happy when I act this way_

_Bad girl, drunk by six_

_Kissing some kind stranger's lips_

_Smoked too many cigarettes today_

_I'm not happy…_

Puck was leaning forward, his eyes burning a hole through her as she tore into her own heart and let her friends finally see what she'd been carrying around all summer. The first tear trickled down her cheek as she kept going.

_Something's missing and I can't go back_

_I fall apart every time you hand your heart out to me_

_What happens now? I know I don't deserve you_

_I wonder how I'm ever gonna hurt you_

_Can't bring myself to let you go_

_Don't want to cause you any pain_

_But I love you just the same_

_And you'll always be my baby_

_In my heart, I know we've come apart_

_And I don't know where to start_

_What can I do?_

_I don't want to feel blue_

Sam's fists were clenched. Quinn felt the second tear start and didn't look anywhere else.

_Bad girl, drunk by six_

_Kissing someone else's lips_

_Smoked too many cigarette's today_

_I'm not happy when I act this way_

_Bad girl, drunk by six_

_Kissing some kind stranger's lips_

_Smoked too many cigarettes today_

_I'm not happy when I act this way_

_I'm not happy this way…_

**888**

Kurt had no real idea how they made it to the school. He'd been having memory slips since he'd woken in the morning to Blaine's dark eyes, eye contact…_something_…

"Trust me, Kurt," Blaine said, and Kurt stilled for just a moment. After last night, he would have thought that that would be the _easiest_ thing Blaine could possibly ask of him, but… Kurt's thoughts were chasing themselves around in circles. So Blaine was distant—different—when they weren't alone together in Kurt's house. That wasn't completely unheard of, was it? Fighting off a creeping sense of unease, Kurt stared into Blaine's eyes – darker than last night? Was it the light? He shuddered as he felt a crawling sense of uneasy familiarity, which was ridiculous, _completely_ ridiculous. Blaine was watching him with something like hunger, a gleam so dark in his eye… Kurt felt a vertiginous wave slipping through him, drawing him toward a threshold which, once crossed, he could never step back from.

Closing his eyes, he whispered, "I trust you."

"Good," Blaine murmured back, sounding oddly triumphant, before he took Kurt's hand and led them toward the school. Kurt drifted after him like Alice chasing the White Rabbit; he was beginning to feel oddly detached, content to follow where Blaine led. There was a vague, stormy disturbance in the back of his mind—this was _wrong_; he never gave up control like this. Hadn't they planned on skipping school together last night? The jocks were circling like hungry sharks, eager for blood; he was walking into the school with no defences up, hand-in-hand with a _boy_—they were going to tear them apart!

Kurt struggled sluggishly against the numbness coursing through him, and Blaine seemed to instinctively turn to trap him in his gaze. Kurt felt that comfortable numbness surging up, but he shied away. Blaine's brow furrowed. Kurt clenched his fist; this was getting out of hand. He was tired and overstressed, underfed, and overmedicated; Blaine had no kind of fantastical psychic link to his shifting moods! He took a deep breath and gave Blaine an apologetic smile. Blaine didn't return it; he did offer his hand again. A silent challenge. Kurt, for reasons he couldn't articulate, chose not to take it. Blaine frowned in something like frustration but Kurt chose to ignore it.

He was acting on complete autopilot. What the _hell_ was he going to actually _do_ once they reached Karofsky to confront him? A vague memory of arguing with Blaine this morning was starting to bubble to the surface the more he thought about it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to…_what_? Confront a very large, very angry, deeply closeted jock about how he sexually assaulted Kurt in a locker room? Kurt shied away from the memories of yesterday afternoon violently—Not_ ready to deal with that_, he decided quickly. Could he do this? It obviously had to be done. Not for the first time, he felt a wave of nostalgia for the days when he had felt as if he could tell Mr. Schuester anything.

Oddly enough, it was that which sparked something inside of him: _anger_. It wasn't fair that he had to do this alone, nor that he had even been put in this situation in the first place. Now it was Blaine following _him_ as he stalked through the halls, hunting down Karofsky. Blaine's hand slipped back into his and Kurt felt his anger strengthen. Blaine had been completely right this morning – who the hell had they been kidding last night? Finding some peaceable solution to this was impossible! Kurt felt his face harden as his anger strengthened into a primal flame inside of him, burning coldly and singing a grim funereal song. He thought for a moment that he saw Quinn in the hall, but he could care less if it _was_ her—fat load of help _she _had been; he was alone and he could handle this!

Quickening his pace, Kurt stormed right up to the stairs when he saw a certain broad, hulking letter jacket moving through the crowd. "Karofsky!" he spat, startling himself with the venom in his own voice. The jock turned around and looked at Kurt with a dismissive sneer. The disregard in the jock's eyes only served to enrage him further—after everything that had happened yesterday, the sick son of a bitch had the _nerve_ to stand there looking _dumb_? "I want to talk to you!"

"Oh yeah, fancy?" Karofsky returned, dangerously quiet. His eyes flicked toward Blaine, and for just one moment Kurt could have _sworn_ that he saw Blaine frown before Karofsky's face clouded over with a sick sort of expression. But before he could even blink Blaine's face was smooth as a stone and Karofsky was glaring at him furiously. "This your _boyfriend_?" he snarled, stepping closer—crowding. This time, however, Kurt refused to back away.

"Don't you come _near_ me," he said as threateningly as he could with his hands shaking. Blaine came to stand behind him, giving him strength, giving him _anger_. "This has to _stop_," he continued a little more strongly. "Frankly, I could care less if you're bisexual or queer with an identity crisis, but whatever the _hell_ is _wrong_ with you, you can't take it out on me anymore." Karofsky's lip was trembling, adding to Kurt's growing sense of unease. Oddly enough, he was thinking about last night and that achingly haunted look in Blaine's eyes when they'd talked about what it had been like to come out of the closet with no friends or support.

"You know what, Hummel? Go to Hell," the jock said, but he just sounded…tired. Kurt's head felt like he was caught up in a whirlwind; a sickening vertiginous feeling that made no sense. The pure rage he was feeling just felt so…_foreign_, almost like it was being manipulated, and that in turn was causing _more_ anger and the sick feeling of being a puppet, being _used_. He felt like a fly ensnared in a particularly well-hidden web, struggling violently to break free. His eyes met Karofsky's, and they both took a step away from each other.

"That's not good enough," Blaine said softly, stepping forward as adult and condescending as anything. Karofsky's fine edge of control seemed to be breaking. Kurt tried to warn Blaine, but that horrific vague feeling was back, holding him in place, which was _impossible_, and yet… "You may not be ready to come out," Blaine continued, and Kurt could only watch as Karofsky's usually mean eyes darted around to the growing crowd of onlookers. Blaine wasn't bothering to keep his voice down, and people were staring, and this was _wrong_—Blaine couldn't _out_ someone; he'd said so himself last night! Karofsky was trembling, much like Kurt was, fighting to twist _away_ from the impending explosion as the crowd became more and more agitated. "But you've crossed lines you can't go back from," Blaine said, his eyes narrowed.

"Shut up," Karofsky muttered desperately.

"Or what?" Blaine countered. "Hitting this problem won't make it go away, _David_." Blaine placed an inflection on Karofsky's name that was sickeningly familiar. Karofsky paled like a ghost, and Kurt felt something burning its way to the surface within him, something he'd pressed down so long ago…

"_Shut the hell up!_" Karofsky yelled, taking a step forward. _No_, Kurt thought desperately, but he couldn't move.

"David," Blaine said softly, almost disturbingly like he was crooning. "Why must you suffer so?"

It was like a switch had been triggered; David Karofsky had snapped. With a roar like a wounded rhinoceros, he started swinging as Kurt stared in horror. The first punch hit Blaine in his unprotected stomach, and pain blossomed on his beautiful face. Kurt felt that final crack to the mirror within him, and he _shattered_, bogged down in a river of icy depression he hadn't felt himself drown in since he was a child locked in an asylum. Blaine got hit again and the jeering jackals that populated the hellhole of William McKinley were just _watching_ this beautiful boy get hurt, this boy who had held Kurt last night while he cried, just as they had so many times watched he himself get broken beyond repair without a care or a thought toward helping him.

Karofsky was screaming inconsequentially as Kurt's vision fractured, the entire world narrowing into sights and sounds too primal and raw to even be handled. There was a beastly drumming sound filling his ears that was that _animal's_ heart, and Kurt wanted that heart to _hurt_ as much as Kurt's own did; he wished with his entire being for Karofsky to feel tenfold every scar that he had ever inflicted on another human being under the weight of his own inadequacy. He watched with a grim detachment as Karofsky started _screaming_, jerking back from Blaine to collapse on the stair landing.

"Oh my god!" a girl screamed, but she did nothing to actually _help_. _God?_ Kurt thought contemptuously. He _was_ God, and he was _furious_. He wondered giddily what would happen if he wished for Karofsky to _die_. The boy made a strangled noise as blood began to seep from his nose. Kurt watched in wretched fascination, not knowing or caring about _how's_ or _why's_, nor that people were pointing at him and backing away like he had the plague; no, what mattered now was that he owed Karofsky _pain_. He felt capable then of _anything_, and he had a seductively nightmarish image of him floating amongst the ashes of this school like some pagan god, tearing McKinley to _nothing. _These people were _animals_, brutish _creatures_; they thought and believed in _nothing_ and he could make them _nothing_—

Blaine's dark eyes were shining unnaturally in the light like the eyes of the phantom, stalking Kurt's nightmares and feeding the anger and numbness that had led directly to where he was now. The very idea of that filled him with a crawling sensation and he jerked back into himself abruptly. David Karofsky, a fellow human being—bully or not—was writhing on the floor in apparent _agony_ and he, Kurt, was just standing there _watching_ just like the people at school had stood and watched him struggle time and time again. He realised that he had a hand outstretched and he snatched it back, stumbling toward the windows. How far had his delusions reached this time? Blaine was surely staring at him like he was a _freak_. Kurt jerked away from the sideshow spectacle forming around him and let out a startled screech as he caught sight of himself in the glass. For one heart-stopping moment his skin had looked deathly pale, his veins black as spider-webs against his flesh, his pupils dilated and burning like…_eyes, strange eyes, following him everywhere, eyes imagined so briefly burning out of _Blaine_, and dear god this is _it_ and I'm going _mad_…_

"_Kurt_," Blaine's voice rose above the melee in Kurt's brain, forceful, inexplicably _there_ in Kurt's _mind_, and for just a moment they stared at each other in a state of entrapment, Kurt's face a mask of terror and Blaine's something like rapture in the face of triumph. Blaine's eyes were dark pools in which Kurt would surely drown… Karofsky suddenly gave a roar like an angry bull, and charged.

"I'LL FUCKING _KILL_ YOU, YOU SICK FUCKING FREAK—_GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_" The jock slammed into Kurt like a lion into a gazelle. Kurt felt his head hit the window with a harsh _thud_, and felt the world slide to black.

**888**

"I can't fucking _believe_ you," Santana hissed like a snake. Quinn clenched her fists but tried as hard as she could to say nothing; her erstwhile frenemy was just trying to bait her and it wasn't going to work, no matter how hard she tried. "Pulling a Berry and dumping Evans in _song_? Like _anyone_ doesn't know that you're just trading back down to Puckerman – who, by the way, _bitch_, is not yours to begin with!" the other girl persisted. Quinn felt the tears start to threaten as she picked up speed and inwardly cursed, desperately trying to mask the weakness. If there was one thing she'd learnt as the leader of the pack of Sue Sylvester's trained vipers it was that once the Latina girl smelt one drop of blood it was over.

"You know what, Santana? Maybe if you weren't so busy pining over the fact that you screwed things up with Brittany so bad she'd rather suck face with _Artie_, you would care less about _my_ love life and focus more on the disaster that's your own!" Quinn snarled viciously. Santana awarded her brief satisfaction by jerking back, shocked. Then, of course, because this day was determined to _suck_, the rest of the glee club spilled out of the classroom, with all of them grouping behind Sam and Puck — exactly the two she _didn't_ want to see right now.

"You stuck up, self-centred, fucking _bitch_!" Santana exclaimed, surging forward to slap Quinn across the face with a hard _crack_. Quinn yelled in pain and frustration and shoved forward herself, slugging Santana with a hard right hook that caught the other girl right in the eye; Santana stumbled back with a loud cry and the stunned teenagers surged forward to separate them.

"Back off, Puckerman; she's _my_ girlfriend!" Sam snapped when Puck headed for Quinn.

"Not anymore, Evans!" Puck yelled right back, and Sam jerked way from her in hurt. Quinn pulled away from Puck, and Puck, stung, stepped away too as yells and accusations started spreading like wildfire.

"What on _Earth_ has gotten _in_ to all of you?" Mr. Schuester yelled. He'd never looked quite so angry or upset before. "You've all been fighting like cats and dogs for not good reason for the past week! You've been incredibly mean and hurtful to each other—Kurt didn't even show up today!"

"Oh, like _you've_ got any room to speak!" Rachel piped up waspishly. "You've been so wrapped up in Miss Pillsbury lately that you don't give a _damn_ that you're running this club right into the ground!"

"Bitch, _please_," Mercedes snapped. "The _only_ reason you're talkin' now is 'cause you ain't automatically getting _every single solo this year_!"

When Rachel slapped Mercedes, the entire corridor went silent in shock, even Rachel herself looking like she couldn't quite believe or understand what she had just done. Quinn, unnoticed, backed away slowly to stop against the lockers, observing the thread of madness stringing from friend to friend with no explanation. "Aw, _hell_ to the _no_!" Mercedes screamed, and she charged Rachel, tackling her in a nasty takedown and started swinging. With that, the pandemonium that had been building sparked into a full blaze. Finn, trying to get Mercedes off of his screaming girlfriend, got smacked by Tina defending her friend; when he retaliated Mike intervened and started fighting too; Santana was screaming at a sobbing Brittany while Artie screamed right back at her and got slugged for his efforts; and Mr Schue was desperately trying to defuse a furious fight between Sam and Puck.

Quinn stood back, watching it all with a sort of horrified purview. She didn't have long to ponder the wherefores of being left out of the brawl, however – three voices she had never thought she would hear talking at once were heading towards them: Coach Bieste, Coach Castle, and Coach Sylvester. "Schuester!" Sylvester barked, her normally iron-clad composure sounding shaken. "Has all that singing and dancing completely knocked what pathetically tiny amount of brains you initially possessed out of the slimy morass of your hair? _Stop this_!"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Bieste roared so loudly Quinn clapped her hands over her ears; it had the desired effect of shocking the brawling teenagers to stillness long enough for the four teachers to wade in and separate them all. It was…horrible. An hysterical Rachel, a variety of bruises and a split lip blossoming on her face, was crying into a shaking Finn's shoulder; Mike was sporting a spectacular-looking black eye and was holding onto Tina and Mercedes, both of whom looked like they were about to cry; Santana and Brittany were holding each other like shell-shocked attack victims while a furiously betrayed-looking Artie backed away; and Puck and Sam both looked beat to hell and back and were refusing to look at each other. Quinn had never seen Mr. Schuester look so upset before. Castle, who for once looked completely sober, was standing between Sam and Puck with a frown on her face. Sylvester looked livid – and not that disdainful anger she tried to show the world on a daily basis, but true, genuine rage.

"Schuester," she pronounced coldly. "This club has officially been disbanded and its members suspended until further notice." And, really, one would think that as long as she'd wanted to utter those words, that she would say them with a tad more satisfaction. Quinn felt numb. New Directions was gone, and she was about to tack a suspension onto her scholastic record.

"You don't have the power to do that!" Mr. Schue protested weakly.

"Actually, as Figgins is currently indisposed with a serious illness at the moment and I have been asked to step in in his stead, I _do_ have that power," she returned flatly. "Now, would you kindly like to explain to me why no less than thirty students are now also suspended for public brawling – _all_ of whom have reported some involvement with your pathetic little glee club in the last two days?" When Schuester stared at her dumbly, she curled her lip and stepped forward. "I know for a fact that you find my methods extreme and that I've made no secret of my genuine horror at the thought of ticking hormonal time bombs relieving their emotions like pus from an exotic wound by _singing_." She shuddered slightly, but continued. "However, we both know that I care genuinely about my job and my position of teaching. I take matters like this seriously. _All_ of your children will undergo drug testing during their suspension, particularly _that_ reprobate—" she jerked her thumb toward Puck, who stiffened in outrage "—and if I find that _any_ of them had _anything_ to do with the outrage that was today, New Directions will be as dead as my maternal instincts and I _will_ have you fired for gross neglect."

As they all absorbed this in various states of shock, Sylvester glanced around until her gaze landed on Quinn. "Fabray." Her voice lacked any warmth or contempt; it was cold and professional. "Where's Hummel?"

"I…I don't know," Quinn said slowly. "He skipped glee yesterday; I haven't seen him…" she trailed off as something played across Sylvester's face.

"…in two days," the coach finished for her, and it wasn't a question. "I see."

"You _can't_ suspect Kurt in this…_madness_!" Mr. Schuester snapped exasperatedly. "He's one of our best students!"

"And for the last two years he's been treated like dog excrement and worse while all of his friends stood back and watched," Sylvester observed tonelessly. Quinn didn't know whether to feel pleased, vindicated, or vaguely disgusted that New Directions finally had the grace to look ashamed. "He's been emotionally distant, feels completely isolated, and from what I gather from that silly twit Pillsbury he has a history of nervous disorders for which he is doubtfully medicating properly as he no longer trusts the adults in his life to help him with his situation. Frankly I'm surprised he hasn't snapped sooner."

"He _has_ been, like, really angry and weird lately," Finn said slowly, and Sylvester whirled on him – but that snapped some of the kids up. Rachel quickly stamped on his foot, and Quinn and Puck both hissed at him to shut up. "What?" Finn demanded, but Mercedes shot him a death glare and his lips snapped shut. No matter what rifts had sprung up between them, glee kids took care of their own no matter what. When the group shut down, Sue's face closed into a stormy scowl.

"Fine. You can all think about this in the ISD room while you're waiting for your parents to show up – assuming _you_ have any left," she gestured once more to Puck here, who snarled right back her. "And you can be hauled right into the drug testing centre at the police station when they arrive, and you will be removed from this institution." It might have ended there, with a few token protests and general grumbling, but, after all, they all knew they hadn't done any drugs. Yes, this had all happened quickly and strangely, but they _were_ teenagers. Besides, what Sylvester was suggesting was ridiculous – Kurt doping students, or, what, putting a curse on the choir room? Even Bieste looked like she wanted to protest the pronouncement. But…

Quinn's head swivelled toward the direction of the centre stairway when she heard – or thought she heard – faint shouting. It was odd that no one else had heard it, but she had the strongest feeling that she needed to go to the stairs, and quickly, or… "Kurt," she said softly; then, before she could start second-guessing herself, Quinn took off sprinting down the hallway.

"Fabray!" Sylvester screeched. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" Quinn kept running, tearing through hallways faster than she'd run before, darting through a mass of students gathering around the stairs like sharks scenting blood. "Fabray—" Sylvester's hand crashed down on Quinn, but they both froze—in fact, most of the students froze in shock as they heard Karofsky scream his wild death threat, watching Kurt's head impact with the window behind him. The feet of the rest of New Directions hit behind her like thunder and she heard of variety of gasps and colourful curses; she made to step toward Kurt but she needn't have bothered.

Kurt's head snapped up and he opened his eyes; an incredibly sick sensation swooped in Quinn's stomach. His eyes were dark and wide, his skin pale and his veins standing out – he didn't look strictly _human_ for that brief, terrible second, and in a voice not his own Kurt snarled "_**Leave me alone!**_" His hand came forward but one of the truly strange things that registered to Quinn for so long afterward was that he didn't actually _touch_ Karofsky. There was almost a _ripple_ in the air between them, and then Karofsky was _howling_. He flew backward like he'd been hit by a wrecking ball, tumbling down the stairs to land with a sickening crack. The entire crowd drew back, but the first scream came from one of the girls who noticed that where Karofsky had landed on his arm, the bone had broken so violently that almost one inch of his forearm was jutting wetly through the flesh.

When Karofsky started screaming—a high pitched, animal keen—it was utter pandemonium. All life seemed to drain from Kurt's face before he crumpled to the floor; kids leapt away from him like he carried the Black Death and crowd jostling and panic quickly turned from isolated scuffles to a miniature mosh pit. As anyone not looking to join the tangle of bodies on the floor crowded toward the edges of the walls or sprinted toward the empty hallways in a panicked stampede; Quinn yelped in surprise when she was jerked back from the spectacle by Sam and Puck, working together to shield her. But Quinn couldn't focus on that dynamic right now – standing next to Kurt's prone form was a boy she'd never seen before, a boy that made every spiritual sense she had never acknowledged scream at her that something was _wrong_; he was regarding the crowd around him with a casual malice that took her breath away, before turning and looking at Kurt with a possessive, psychotic, _obsessive_ look, a vampire to his victim, and she stopped cold.

"Help me!" she snapped to both of the boys behind her, then diving headfirst into the raging sea of humanity around her. Once more she felt that subtle chemistry around her, the anger and despair pulsing from the crowd around her, but she shrugged it off to think about it later. The boys were helping her shove up the stairs until she was _there_. The boy frowned at her normal appearance and she knew without a shadow of a doubt, no matter how ridiculous or _impossible_ it seemed, that the son of a bitch knew _exactly_ what was happening, that he was trying to do it to her, and that she had to keep him as far from Kurt as she possibly could. Quinn ignored the impossible and trusted to faith, put down the unconscious barriers around her mind, and let the hate in the boy's eyes hit her.

It was like getting thrown underneath a hot waterfall, crushing and drowning force, and her fists clenched but she bit back a fierce grin when she saw him realise his mistake – _he_ was who she was angry at. Quinn cocked her arm back and let fly. It hurt, oh _God_ did it hurt, but she hit him harder than she'd ever hit anyone in her entire life, right in the jaw. The strange boy let out a loud grunt and folded to the ground. "Quinn, what the f—" Puck started to snap, but she waved him off, cradling her fist.

"Just grab Kurt!" Puck gave her a leery look, but he snatched up the unconscious boy anyway.

"He's shaking real bad," he grunted, looking worried.

"What do we do about him?" Sam asked doubtfully, pointing to the stranger on the ground and eyeing the still-fighting crowd that various teachers were trying desperately to break up.

"Leave him," Quinn said coldly, and marched up the emptying staircase toward one of t side exits. Puck cursed a blue streak as he followed her, Sam also trailing in her orbit. She would talk to him later and make him understand exactly what was going on—he certainly deserved that much from her, at the very least. But she didn't have one single clue what the hell was going on, and the most she _could_ focus on was getting some help for her friend: getting him to medical attention, calling Burt, and most of all getting him out of that school and away from _him_.

**888**

Hospital waiting rooms were all the same, Sam speculated. They were full of upset people in one way or another, short-tempered hospital staff, and they smelled like bleach and unhappiness. He was wondering if he should call his parents before the school got around to doing it; but then, he was already suspended. Maybe they were after him for kidnapping Kurt? He snorted a little hysterically and Puck threw him a poisonous frown. The other boy was pacing back and forth like a caged hyena. On top of everything else that had happened that crazy day, he was making Sam antsy.

"Dude, could you quit?" Sam snapped finally. Puck gave him a dirty look, but he sat down anyway. The waiting chairs were mostly full, and considering their shared black eyes split lips and the blood from nicks and scrapes dotting each others' shirts, they'd wordlessly elected to sit on the floor in the small hallway leading to the doors Quinn and Kurt had vanished through a good ten minutes ago. Thinking of Quinn hurt spectacularly. Were they even a couple anymore? Puck certainly didn't think so. But she had been amazing this afternoon when she took charge of the insanity in the halls. Sam sighed and eyed Puck. The other boy looked pretty upset, which made Sam curious.

"Why do you even care, anyway? You're an asshole to Kurt every day of the week."

"First off, Evans, _fuck_ you," Puck said after a minute. The glare on his face went softer, however, and Sam realised abruptly that what was mainly going on in Puck's head was _guilt_. Sam waited in silence until it got just that shade of uncomfortable, a trick he'd picked up from his annoyingly curious little sister. Puck looked away from him, keeping his eyes trained on the wall. "It wasn't supposed to go like this. Everybody picks on the gay kid, you know? It ain't like I really _hate_ Hummel – I mean, yeah, it pisses me off the way he always acts like he's better than everybody else, but…" His fists clenched, and Sam sensed that he was working himself up to what he was really upset about.

Puck ran his hand through his Mohawk and kept on quietly. "My mama told me when I got out of juvie that everything I touched went to shit. That kid that freaked Quinn out on the stairs Kurt was with today? He was wearing a Dalton shirt. _I_ told him to go up there. It's my fault that Quinnie's messing herself up, and this whole fucked up day is _my_ fault." He knocked his head back against the wall and fixed Sam with a weak scowl. "And if you ever tell _anyone_ that I just grew a raging vagina and told you this shit, I'll _kill_ you. I'm here because I _owe_ Hummel, and I've got to set that right."

When Puck had first got out of juvenile detention, Sam had asked Quinn why everyone had been happy, considering some of the stories he'd heard about Puck's glory days as school bully ringleader. She'd gone quiet and faraway in that way when she was thinking about that subject that they didn't talk about, and finally said, "When he was very little, Puck's dad ran out and taught him everything he needed to know about the world. When you get passed him being a jerk – deep past it – Noah Puckerman is one of the most decent human beings I know. The problem is that _he_ doesn't see it." Now, Sam was wondering if he should have asked her if _she_ still saw that. Before he had too long to keep ruminating, the door opened and Quinn stepped through, her hands clenched on her cell phone.

"Well, they aren't _telling_ me anything because I'm not family," she was saying. "But he won't wake up, and they say it doesn't look like any coma that they've ever seen, so I don't know if they're just being useless or not…Of course I'm staying here, Mr Hummel; Kurt's my _friend_… No, I don't know why the school's been calling you – it's been a really crazy day… Okay, I'll tell the front desk." When she hung up, Quinn sighed and slowly lowered her hands, breathing out through her nose. It was a yoga technique Sam often caught her doing after long, hard Cheerios practises. He wanted to offer her a shoulder to lean on, but Puck was sitting just as tense against the wall as he was and Sam stayed where he was.

"That was Kurt's dad," Quinn said after a moment. "He's pretty freaked out. He's on his way here."

"They won't tell you why he's not waking up?" Puck asked.

"They're saying it's because I'm not immediate family, but really, I don't think even _they_ know," Quinn said. "Either way, Burt's on his way here, and…oh, thank God!" Sam looked up in surprise and saw a nurse who looked vaguely familiar hurrying their way, stopping short at the three of them. "Mrs. Hudson!" _Finn's mom_, Sam remembered.

"Quinn? Why aren't you in school? I thought I heard a 'Hummel' being admitted to the ER, but…" She trailed off and eyed the three of them. "Right. You three obviously need to be checked out, so you should come with me," she said a little more loudly, and Puck grinned mischievously as Mrs. Hudson led them blatantly back into the patient section of the ER and straight to the curtains with Kurt's admittance record attached to them. Sam sucked in his breath as the curtains peeled back. Kurt was still and white as a statue on the bed, and some part of Sam thought that Kurt would probably be relieved to know that in his unconscious state he looked like a black and white daguerreotype of a romantic noir Hollywood star in repose.

"They won't tell us _anything_—" Quinn began, but Mrs. Hudson nodded, not looking surprised.

"Well, you're not immediate family. Is Burt on his way here?" At Quinn's nod, she sighed in relief. "Thank God I didn't have to make that call," she muttered. She was running through Kurt's papers, her brow furrowing. "So, I'm just going to take a wild stab in the dark and assume that none of you have told the staff what actually happened?"

"There was…an incident at school today," Quinn said carefully. Sam kept silent when Puck stamped on his foot swiftly enough that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't catch them. "Kurt got into a fight with this boy who's been bullying him badly. He hit his head on a window and pushed the other boy away from him, and then he just collapsed."

"That's even stranger," Mrs. Hudson said, clucking her tongue absently. "If he were unconscious due to trauma, it would be listed here, but it says that he didn't even hit his head hard enough to get more than a bump – maybe a headache, but nothing really impactful and certainly not enough to—" She sucked in a breath suddenly and fixed Quinn with a piercing gaze. "What exactly do you mean, a boy who's been bullying him very badly?" She sounded furious. Before Quinn even had a chance to answer, she told them all to stay where they were and stepped out of the curtain.

"Why didn't you tell her…" Sam trailed off awkwardly.

"Tell her _what_, Sam? That Kurt somehow knocked a boy a hundred pounds bigger than him twenty feet away from him?" Quinn said tiredly. "We've already got Sylvester accusing Kurt of dosing on drugs; the last thing we need is his father's girlfriend telling Burt that if…_when_ Kurt wakes up."

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes later when they heard loud yelling from the doors, and the curtains swirled open once more to reveal several exasperated hospital staff trying to corral Burt Hummel, Mr. Schuester, Carole Hudson, Finn, Mercedes, two police officers, Sue Sylvester, and the boy from the stairs all trying to gain access to the bed at once. It was rather like the same circus that Sam had watched earlier at school; everyone was yelling at once and fighting to get to the same place, except Mercedes. She slunk in behind everyone else, caught her breath, and slid into the chair next to Kurt's bed, taking his hand in hers and saying nothing.

"—and look, there's that deviant Puckerman now, away from the rest of the group; he was a witness and he'll need to be questioned as well," Sue was saying loudly to the two policemen, both of whom were ignoring her and trying to get to Burt.

"If you people don't get the hell out of my way and let me see _my son_ right the _hell_ now," he was shouting; and he wasn't the only angry parent.

"I've been talking to Mercedes as well, Finnegan Hudson!" Carole was shrieking at a thoroughly cowed Finn. "He is unconscious right now! He's been bullied worse than ever lately! You told me that you'd stopped hanging out with those idiot bullies! You said you were looking out for him! Where the hell have you _been_ in all this?"

"STOP!" Quinn shouted suddenly. Sam hadn't even noticed her move but she was standing in front of Kurt's bed, clenching her fists and staring down the entire group bold as brass. To his surprise, the same bubble of calm that had surrounded her in the hallways that day seemed to hit the group. The boy from the stairs was staring at Quinn with a closed-off expression that made Sam's hackles rise. Who the hell _was_ that guy?

"Quinn," Burt said after a moment. "What the hell _happened_?" He moved quickly past them all and sat down on Kurt's other side, taking the hand Mercedes wasn't holding. Sam realised that Mercedes was praying and thought rather hollowly that Kurt would just _love_ that. He was staring at his son with deep-seated fear in his eyes, and Sam couldn't imagine what the man was going through.

"There was a fight at school today," Quinn said simply. "Kurt stood up to Karofsky, and they got into a fight. Kurt passed out when it was all over, and the whole school was going crazy today. I figured that the best thing was to get Kurt to professionals since we still don't have a school nurse." For some reason, she shot Sylvester a _look_ there that Sam couldn't decipher; the coach's face stayed impassive.

"And that was a good idea," Carole said. She was still glaring at Finn, who was so red-faced Sam wondered if he could cook eggs on the other's face. "I'm sure that we all appreciate you taking _care_ of Kurt in this situation."

"Karofsky? Who the hell is Karofsky?" Burt asked, but he didn't seem to really want an answer, or at least he didn't sound like he was expecting one. He was staring at Kurt as if willing him to wake up and answer him, and Sam understood that Burt was beginning to realise just how much Kurt had been keeping from him. The idea hurt Sam down to his soul; when he'd finally told _his_ parents about the bullies at his old school, it had felt like poison draining from a wound. When his mother had held him through it, he'd realised that it was going to be _okay_. Kurt didn't have that, and Sam frowned.

"A bully – a particularly violent bully who's been tormenting Kurt for some time now," said a smooth voice, and Sam started when he saw that it was Stairs Boy. "He threatened to kill Kurt today during the fight."

Burt froze. He went so stiff that Sam thought for a moment he looked like one of the people Professor X had froze up in _X2_; he was clenching the frame of the bed so hard it creaked. "What. Did. You. Just. Say?" he whispered, voice dangerously silent. In fact, the entire room had gone quiet. The strange boy stepped forward calmly, as if entering a presidential debate, and it hit Sam in the back of his head exactly _why_ the boy gave him the wiggins – he walked and talked like an adult…an _old_ adult. He was definitely good-looking – _really_ good-looking – but he was just not…_right_, in ways that Sam would never be able to explain.

"For the past few months, the bullying at William McKinley has gotten terribly out of hand," Stairs Boy answered calmly. His words were elegantly, forcefully delivered right into the front of the mind, almost like he was Vulcan, mind-melding them all. He was kind of _pleasant_ to listen to, like you could listen to what he was saying all day, or do whatever he asked you to. Sam wondered why Quinn was staring daggers at the boy; if looks could kill the he'd be a smoking mass on the floor, unrecognisable to gods or men. "Kurt has felt unable to turn to his friends as most of them either ignored it or contributed to it. When Karofsky assaulted Kurt in a locker room, alone, yesterday—" Burt made a strangled, choking noise; Sam stared at the kid and wondered what the hell he was talking about— "Kurt had had enough and confronted him about it today. Karofsky threatened to kill him and attacked him. Everyone saw it."

"Who the hell _are_ you?" Quinn asked, her voice cold as ice. The boy returned her look levelly, and Sam had the oddest notion that they were having a standoff like predatory cats at the zoo. The boy seemed to dislike Quinn just as much as she disliked him, and he didn't think it had anything to do with the bruise blossoming from where she'd pulled a Hermione Granger and punched him earlier.

"My name is Blaine Anderson. Last week Kurt stopped by my school, Dalton Academy, to observe our choir, the Warblers, performing." Burt looked up in surprise at this, his mouth hanging open as Kurt's secrets continued to spill into the room. "I'm gay," Blaine continued matter-of-factly, and now everyone in the room was staring at him like he was an alien; it was probably the first time that Sam had heard those words said so bluntly and easily in Lima, Ohio, and he was starting to really understand why Kurt hung around this guy. He was…hypnotic. "After the performance, Kurt and I talked. I was bullied at my old school, and Dalton has a strict no-tolerance bullying policy. Kurt told me what was going on with him, and we've become friends. In fact, I advised him to look into transferring to Dalton – he certainly has the academic standards and performing credits to obtain a scholarship, and it seems that he'd be much safer there."

"There's something that you're leaving out, hobbit," Sylvester said suddenly, and they all turned to her. "Though I find the oil-ridden hedge of your hair nearly as abhorrent as your idle William Schuester—" she jerked her thumb back toward Mr. Schue here, who rolled his eyes to the heavens "—I do agree with you on most points. But you seem to be leaving out the facts that Mr. Hummel apparently has some as-yet-unknown connection to the _riot_ that rolled through William McKinley this morning, that he has become rather truant in his classes, which may be understandable as he was obviously avoiding the Cro-Magnons who occupy the locker rooms, and that the Mr. Karofsky in question was pushed so violently by Mr Hummel that he's upstairs in a separate hospital room where, as I understand it, they are trying to force the bones back into position in his arm. I can assure you, Mr. Hummel, that your son will most certainly be expelled by the school board as soon as this matter comes before them. This is blue-collar Ohio. They don't recognise anti-gay bullying as a problem, and such a violent fight will most likely result in the expulsion of both participants."

Her voice was cold, calm, and matter-of-fact, though the twisting of her lips suggested that she didn't agree with or like the facts of the matter. "Wait a minute, here," Burt rasped hoarsely, sounding like he was choking back screams. "You're telling me that my son was bullied to the point of _death threats_ and you're going to _expel_ him for _fighting back_? WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU PEOPLE _BEFORE_ IT GOT THIS BAD?"

"Mr. Hummel, I don't agree with the facts of the matter," Sylvester said. Sam was flabbergasted to hear genuine emotion in her voice. "I've tried to look out for your son as much as I could – promoting him to Cheerios helped some, and most of those idiots are too afraid of me to bully him anywhere near me. But like I've said, this is middle-America. They won't see this as particularly targeted bullying. They'll see it as a fight that got far enough out of hand to send both participants to the hospital. Both boys _will_ be expelled; not by _me_, but by the _board_. There's not much that either of us can do about _that_."

"There might be," Blaine Anderson said softly, his smooth voice once more drawing eyes to him. "If Kurt could transfer to Dalton Academy before the matter is even brought before the school board, he wouldn't have the expulsion on his academic record. Thanks to Dalton's private academy status and their anti-bullying policy, Kurt wouldn't have so much as a suspension from McKinley register on his record once Dalton's board got hold of the reason for Kurt's transfer."

"First off, we don't even _know_ you," Quinn started flatly.

"That didn't seem to keep you from punching me earlier," Blaine noted calmly. He kept on before Quinn could say anything in her own defence. "And what's most important here is that _Kurt_ knows me. Kurt _trusts_ me. And I've certainly been a better friend to him that any of _you_, lately."

"Just because Kurt could let someone who's like him empathise with his situation doesn't mean that you're best friends," Quinn argued back angrily. "I've done _everything_ I could to help him, so quite frankly you can kiss my—"

"That's _enough_," Carole said firmly. "Mr. Anderson, your suggestion is certainly worth considering. But Kurt is in hospital now and needs to be left to immediate family and to professionals. All of you children should be in school right now—"

"Not really; we got suspended," Finn piped up helpfully.

"I'll deal with _you_ at _home_," Carole said darkly, and he shut up. "Fine, then. All of you children should be being picked up by your parents right now and taken home. Officers, Kurt obviously can't answer questions right now, and each of these children will be home where they can find them. You can interview Miss Sylvester—"

"_Principle_ Sylvester, now," Sue said grimly.

"—away from _here_," Carole steamrollered angrily, dismissing the other woman. "Mr. Schuester, you drive a van, correct?" When he nodded, she continued, "I'm sure that the parents of these children trust you to drive them home, then. Kurt and Burt need to be left alone." Her voice softened slightly when she said, "That means you too, Mercedes."

Sam hung back to take Mercedes shaking hand, and he was surprised when he saw Quinn and Blaine toe-to-toe outside of the ER. "Look, I don't know _what_ you've got planned, but if you think for one _second_ that I'm letting Kurt go to some boarding school to _live_ with _you_ all day—"

"—I do find it so interesting that you seem to think that this is up to you," Blaine returned acidly. "Go home, little mother. This doesn't concern you any longer. Kurt is _my_ concern now."

"_What did you just say to me_?" Quinn whispered, deadly quiet, and Blaine smirked at her. Sam shook his head, slightly disoriented – for a second, he could have _sworn_ the boy's eyes were the same dark, doll's eyes _Kurt_ had possessed for that nightmarish second on the stairs…but then the moment was gone, and Sam's memories of the fight seemed so…odd. Blaine was obviously pretty cool, and if he cared about Kurt that much, maybe they might even be boyfriends. Kurt deserved that, right?

"Come on, Quinn," he called. He couldn't understand why she was so angry. Dalton had a no-tolerance policy, right? That had to be a good thing. Quinn hissed, "This is _not_ over, you _freak_," before she turned and joined him and Mercedes. Sam thought that might be taking it a step far, but she kept walking and didn't look back.

**888**

"No, you're really not getting this – I don't remember a thing after my head hit that window," Kurt snapped, his fists clenched. "I've explained this to you three times, Officer Bamber. I appreciate that part of your job is to repeat questions until a suspect slips and changes their story, but I'm telling you I _don't remember_."

"I've got more than thirty witnesses who all say that you shoved that kid, son," the policeman snapped.

"You've also got thirty witnesses who will verify that that _Neanderthal_ hit me _and_ my friend first, threatened to and _attempted_ to _kill_ me, and is also at least fifty pounds heavier than I am!" Kurt exploded, his heart monitor beeping wildly. "Even if I did admit to hitting him – which I'm _not_, by the way – there is no way the laws of physics would ever allow me to hit him _that_ hard! Not to mention that from what the school's weblog is saying you've got even _more_ witnesses who think I can shoot fire from my eyeballs!"

"Kurt, this is _serious_!" Burt cut in angrily, moving forward from his position at the door.

"I _am_ serious!" Kurt yelled. "I didn't start this fight!"

"_You sure as hell finished it_!" Burt hollered.

"If you don't want to believe me then just get out!" Kurt screamed right back.

"Maybe if you'd actually _mentioned_ something every single day that I asked you how school was, we wouldn't be _in_ this mess!"

"If you need to know what's going on in my life, why don't you just ask _Finn_; you're good at _that_!" Kurt bit off rudely.

"Don't you _dare_ turn this back on me!" Burt roared. "If your mother was here to see you right now—"

"I HATE YOU!" Kurt screamed. The entire room froze, and Officer Bamber muttered something about coming back later and edged out of the room. Burt was staring at Kurt like he'd stabbed him. Kurt took a deep, heaving breath, like half a sob, and finally just whispered, "I want to talk to Blaine."

Burt nodded dumbly, and stumbled out of the room. He wasn't entirely sure how he ended up in the cafeteria with Carole sitting in front of him, waiting for him to start eating. She seemed relieved when he took a bite of the sandwich she'd grabbed for him, not really paying attention to what he was eating. "The first time Finn told he me hated me, he was thirteen years old and he'd found out that I'd followed through on my threat and locked his video games up until he cleaned his room. He didn't know it but I cried myself to sleep that night," she said lightly. "They're _teenagers_, Burt. They're _supposed_ to hurt our feelings trying to figure out how to stop being children."

"You don't understand," Burt said thickly after a moment. "Kurt's never been _like_ that. He's always been calm and in control. It's a little like living with a miniature college student in the house. I just…I don't know what's happening to him. He hasn't acted like this since…" He trailed off and put the sandwich down. "Do _you_ think that Dalton place is worth looking into?"

"I think that a strictly enforced no-tolerance bullying policy is certainly something worth looking into," Carole said after a moment. "I talked to Finn and to Puck, and I was _horrified_ at some of the things I heard – throwing other kids into the dumpster, throwing ice-cold _slushies_ into unpopular kids' faces, the name-calling, and locker shoves… I'm considering looking into other school districts for Finn, frankly. If just being in glee club is enough to put him danger of the _insanity_ in that school, I don't want him in it."

"I don't trust that Blaine kid," Burt said after a moment. Carole stared at him.

"He seems like an extraordinarily prepossessed young man," she said after a moment. "And Burt, I think he really cares about Kurt." Burt shot her a look.

"I think he cares about Kurt a little too _much_, is the problem. My son is gay, Carole; I was going to have to meet a boyfriend at some point. But this kid…he sets something off in me, like…I can't even describe it."

"The point _I_ was trying to make, Burt, is that I think Kurt quite likes _him_ as well. Are you _sure_ that this isn't the overprotective father talking?"

"Eh, maybe you're right," Burt muttered, raking his hands over his bald head. "But, you know, the freaky part is that he kind of reminded me of someone…like a dream…"

"Burt, honey, how long has it been since you _slept_?" Carole asked shrewdly. Burt snorted, and she sighed. "You've been in here since Kurt was admitted, haven't you." It wasn't a question. "That was over 48 _hours_ ago, Burt. You're not helping anyone not operating at 100 per cent. Remember what that awful Sylvester woman was talking about as well, though. Blaine made a good case for Kurt's transfer, stopping an expulsion from happening."

"I remember what she said," Burt said darkly. "I want to _talk_ to that Karofsky _kid_."

"Sleep first, assault teenagers later," Carole said firmly. "Come on; I'll drive you home."

**888**

It was a bright, sunny winter day through the windows of the hospital room. Kurt had been alone all morning, and he was beginning to regret what he'd screamed at his father yesterday. It wasn't his dad's fault that things were going so far to shit so fast. They'd at least allowed Mercedes to bring by some clothes from home, as this was to be his last day in hospital – they couldn't find anything medically wrong with him and diagnosed it as exhaustion. Kurt snorted bitterly.

He was sitting on his bed, his knees drawn up to his chest and hands locked around his legs, curled up the way he'd always done when he was alone, his eyes roaming the sunny air locked away from him. He was trying as hard as he could to _not_ think, something he usually despised doing. Of all the things he held most valuable, it was his mind – it was the one private thing he could keep to himself. Kurt sometimes thought that if he were diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease he wouldn't know what to do; even the thought of AIDS didn't scare him as much as the thought of losing his mind.

It was precisely that which was occupying him, though. The more he thought about what he could remember of that disastrous morning, the more it didn't make sense, and the more he felt a low pulse of anger running through his system – but anger at _what_? It was this vague…idea. A _feeling_, and Kurt Hummel did not react to _feelings_. But it had felt like…like he was being _controlled_. The idea was, of course, laughable. Possession? A novel idea in the fifth _Harry Potter_, certainly, or for fright nights with _The Exorcist_.

But that couldn't shake the _feeling_ of that morning – the anger mounting inside of him, sparking to rage; the strange feelings he'd felt standing above Karofsky as he lay on the stairwell. That wasn't _him_; it wasn't _right_. Kurt wanted more than anything to talk to Blaine. He wanted an explanation for the difference in Blaine from night to day, something that seemed even more inexplicable now than it had before.

He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. Nothing made sense now, and it hadn't for awhile if he was going to go the introspection route and be truly honest with himself. His entire life was spiralling farther and faster out of his control; when he got home, he was expected to help his father make a decision about Dalton now, as well. Of course part of him leapt at the idea of heading off to Wonderland with Blaine, but the more cynical part of him knew that it wasn't that simple. There were questions that existed about Blaine that he just _couldn't_ answer; wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to. Real life didn't work out like a silly love song, and handsome princes didn't swoop in at just the right moment to sweep one of one's feet and take one away from all one's problems.

More and more, Kurt felt like invisible hands were pulling him in all directions, no longer in control of his life, his emotions, his _mind_, and the idea was driving him mad. The only person he longed to talk to at the moment was Blaine, and yet the one person he was most afraid of talking to right now was precisely _Blaine_, and what did he _do_ with that?

_**Kurt**_, whispered the voice in the room, and Kurt winced. The attacks were getting worse, ever since he'd woken up, and they were leaving him with the restless desire to talk to Blaine – which, he supposed, made sense: the night they'd spent together he hadn't had a single hallucination. Maybe his own subconscious was haunting him with some knowledge out of his reach. Kurt frowned. Such parapsychology was usually beneath him; he could tell Freud _and_ Jung precisely where they could shove their damn ink blots.

So, minutes later when Dr Shane walked into the hospital room, Kurt saw her reflection in the glass, and altogether he wasn't totally surprised that she should show up _now_, when he was finally confronting the frightening possibility that he was already mad and was just now admitting it to himself.

"I guess Dad sent you here to talk sense into me," Kurt said acidly, trying for comfort in sarcasm, and the woman snorted in her unladylike way.

"No, actually; I came on my own when the doctor flagged me down as one of my ex-patients had levels of his medication in his system varied enough to tell me that he'd gone off the medication for long enough that he should have known better than to restart a lithium supplement without consult first," she said flatly, and Kurt cringed. He'd _known_ taking those pills were a mistake. "Kurt, let's take a walk. This room smells like you haven't been out of it in days."

"I haven't," he pointed out acerbically.

"It shows," she returned sweetly, and Kurt was left wondering if he wanted to hug her for treating him like a normal human being or attack her for the comment. He decided on sanity after a few moments of quiet reflection and followed her to the elevators. They didn't speak on the ride down, and Kurt wasn't really shocked when they ended up in the courtyard. Dr Shane loved the outdoors, from what he remembered. The fresh air smelled wonderful after more than two days of hospitals, and he sighed and stretched out his hands to soak in the cold winter air. "So, Kurt. Tell me about it."

"I've already told every single damn officer and doctor—" Kurt began hotly, but she waved him off.

"Just tell me what you remember. I'd like to know."

They sat down on a park bench as Kurt clinically went through the details of the last month. She listened as impassively as he told it; it didn't feel like talking to Blaine had felt, like pouring poison from a wound. Instead, he detailed his hallucinations to her, every instance of weakness taking one of her damn pills, and what he remembered of the fight. "And that's it. I don't remember a single thing after my head hit the glass, and I don't remember a huge amount before that. It was just a weird morning. And I'm apparently getting expelled for it," he concluded.

"So, you've seen Leomaris again," Dr Shane said unexpectedly.

It felt like an icy dagger had stabbed into Kurt's stomach and the breath had been knocked out of him. Those _eyes_, black _eyes_—

"_But I _didn't_ hurt Tommy, Mrs. Applora, _Leo_ did!" Kurt protested angrily._

"_Kurt, that is _enough_," Mrs. Applora said angrily. "You're going to turn nine years old soon and that's far too old for imaginary friends! You hit Tommy after he taunted you!"_

"_No I didn't! Why won't anyone _listen_ to me!" Kurt hollered, and the woman shrieked as every piece of paper on her desk shot into the air, whirling around her like a miniature tornado. "Make him leave me _alone_!"_—

"I've just been stressed out because a bully has been stalking me," Kurt said coldly, but just for that moment he wondered if he was talking to Dr Shane or to himself.

"Kurt—"

"_No_," Kurt said flatly, and he left the courtyard. He was _not_ insane, he thought viciously as he marched toward the hospital room. Anxiety disordered patients sometimes had low-level hallucinations brought on by extreme stress; he'd read about it countless times and kept it in his head like a mantra for months. He had _not_ been _possessed_ and _attacked_ David Karofsky; Blaine was not connected to some paranoid schizophrenic conspiracy theory he was constructing around himself. His life wasn't some insane drama in a musical television series, damn it; he was in control of _himself_ and he was not going to let his own issues get in the way of the brightest thing that had happened to him in years. He was going to _call_ Blaine, and get past whatever was affecting him lately, and it was all going to _work out_.

Of course, he was Kurt Hummel. He wasn't completely surprised when he found someone in his hospital room, waiting for him to hinder his plans. It was Quinn.

"Hey," she said hesitantly.

"Hello, Quinn," he said evenly.

They hadn't spoken since their argument in the hallway that day, though Kurt had been informed that Quinn had fought through the madness at McKinley to rush him to hospital and see him to safety. He sighed. Quinn had _tried_ to strengthen their friendship, and he'd been far too stung by Mercedes to even consider that it might be genuine. His pride had gotten in the way, and now he didn't know where that left him with the blonde.

"So, I heard that you broke up with Sam," he led off, and winced. Where the hell were his conversational skills? Quinn sighed and looked away.

"You heard about that, huh?" she said softly. He nodded mutely and crossed to sit on the bed, facing her where she sat in one of the chairs. "We…talked, after. He needed to understand that _I_ was too messed up to be in a relationship with _anyone_, especially not someone as sweet as him. I needed him to know that I wasn't just leaving him for Puck. I wanted _Puck_ to know that I wasn't leaving Sam for Puck," she continued wryly, and Kurt grinned. "I just…need some time alone."

"I understand _that_," Kurt commented, gesturing at the hospital around him. She smiled lightly.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I feel _fine_; I've felt fine since I woke up. I just apparently really needed to sleep," Kurt said irritably. "They're keeping me under observation to make sure that I don't collapse again, I guess."

"So you'll be free to go home soon," Quinn guessed cannily, and Kurt stared at her slightly. What was she getting at?

"…yes," he said after a moment. Seeming to sense that she'd been caught leading up to something, Quinn took a deep breath and ploughed right into it.

"Kurt, I don't think that you should transfer to Dalton," she said in a rush. Well, that had been one of the last things that he'd been expecting.

"Why?" he asked curiously. It wasn't like the transfer was set in stone or anything, and he certainly had a bit to think about – not the least of which was finances, with his dad's hospital bills still being paid off from the surgery and whatever bills _he_ was wracking up now.

"I don't think that you should entirely trust Blaine," Quinn said bluntly looking him dead in the eye, and Kurt found himself frowning defensively before he could really give it thought.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" he asked stormily. "Blaine's the only one who's been _there_ for me in this _mess_—"

"You don't _know_ him!" Quinn returned exasperatedly. "You've known him for all of, what, two weeks?"

"That doesn't matter," Kurt said stubbornly. "Blaine understands me."

"He certainly wants you to _think_ that," Quinn muttered, and Kurt eyed her darkly.

"Because _that_ makes so much sense," he said acidly.

"I just don't _trust_ him, okay?" Quinn said edgily. "There is something _off_ about him, Kurt, and I know that you know it too! Think about on the stairs!"

"Why are you trying to make this about Blaine?" Kurt demanded. "How could you possibly—what exactly are you suggesting?"

"I've just got a bad feeling about him! I'm asking you to _believe_ that – you know that what happened the other day was _insane_, and you _know_ that he had something to do with it!"

"That's completely absurd," Kurt snapped, his fists clenched. He felt tense as an over-tuned piano wire. "And you should know by now that I don't _believe_ in faerie tales."

"I'm not asked you to believe in God, Kurt, I'm asking you to believe in _me_ – your _friend_," Quinn said strongly.

"_Blaine_ is my friend, and I can't believe that you would attack him like this. You don't even _know_ him! Dalton is the only place in this entire state that I can be myself and not be afraid to get thrown into a _dumpster_ for it. If you were really my friend you'd support me on this!"

"So you're really transferring then?" Quinn asked quietly, and Kurt surprised himself to realise that he had somehow made the decision then and there. Something…_clicked_ into place within him at the idea, the same feeling he'd gotten before walking into McKinley the other morning – the feeling of standing at the edge of a precipice, where every move took him closer to the edge but that what was at the edge itself was of vital importance; this was something he _had_ to see through to the end.

"Yes, I _am_. Unless that offends you?" he snapped back, bitchy more out of habit than anything.

"Fine. It's your life," Quinn said lifelessly, and turned to leave.

"Quinn…"

But she was already gone.

_**One Month Later**_

—_When Amelia first walked back into town, the people were terrified, she could see it on their faces. She felt oddly powerful, causing such a powerful reaction in the people. She was a strong woman, her muscles grown from eking out her life from the hard earth around her, dressed in dark colours to blend with the forest. She imagined that they found her primeval and terrifying as they couldn't comprehend her. They were simple folk, these people were, and her mother had dedicated her life to helping them. They had murdered her for it._

_She could feel _him_ in the air around her, and it made her giddy. She wasn't here to deal with fools – they were innocent, no matter their stupidity. No, she had much larger targets in mind. Amelia stopped when people stepped in front of her and a suspicious man demanded who she was and what she wanted. "I am the Witch of the Forest," she declared, her voice rusty with disuse, and it amused her to watch the man scramble back in terror. "I am here for revenge of my mother."_

_The spirit whistled past her, appearing to the villagers as if she could control the winds themselves, and she smiled as she called to him, "L—_

"Kurt, wake up," whispered a voice in his ear, and Kurt jerked to wakefulness with a strangled noise. Arms were holding him, sheltering him, and he could have sobbed with relief. He was seeing more in his dreams than he ever had before, and it was confusing him. Since his transfer to Dalton Academy, the…incidences, hallucinations, whatever, were largely fading, but in their place the nightmares were getting worse.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay; I don't sleep anyway," Blaine joked, and Kurt chuckled, snuggling in closer to Blaine's chest. They were lying together in Kurt's bed. When he had transferred mid-term, Blaine had easily managed to convince the dean to allow them to room together after Kurt's experiences at McKinley. It wasn't unusual for Blaine to try his favourite remedy for nightmares: hugs. Kurt could drown in Blaine's hugs; the other boy was always so inexplicably warm, and comforting…Well, sometimes.

Kurt had been at Dalton for close to a month now, and the phenomenon of the twin Blaine's was starting to become more of a strange reality that he had increasingly no explanation for. From morning to evening, Blaine Anderson was calm, prepossessed, forceful, self-assured, his hair slicked back and his steps sure as he led Kurt through the halls of Dalton. He'd convinced the Warblers to let Kurt in without so much as an audition within Kurt's second week after Kurt had mentioned missing singing with New Directions; when Kurt had protested Blaine had smoothly explained that they'd seen him perform with New Directions before and were aware that he obviously had the skill.

Kurt was taking most of Blaine's classes, which in a way was a relief but in another was beginning to feel almost stifling. When they were in class together, Blaine took careful notes and seemed to make sure that Kurt was doing the same. There were several boys who Kurt thought might have wanted to talk to him, but all of his time was monopolised by Blaine – and the facts of that were filling him with a kind of misgiving. That first, strange conversation with Blaine over the phone was ringing in his ears in their talks together; Blaine wanted to know _everything_ about Kurt to the point that Kurt had begun finding excuses to delay their conversations – why the hell did Blaine want to know the details of Kurt's childhood? When Kurt had tried to voice the fact that certain parts of the past needed to stay there, Blaine had frowned. "But, Kurt—"

"I'm late for revisions in the library for AP Ancient Civilisations," Kurt said brusquely, and all but sprinted from the room. He felt Blaine's eyes on him with every step. He felt at times like a bird in a cage, almost like he was comparing his life to the Warbler mascot Pavarotti, or at least performing "Green Finch and Linnet Bird" from _Sweeney Todd_ to an increasingly private audience. Blaine never left him _alone_. In some ways it was flattering, but in others…

Blaine was just so _compelling_ in ways that Kurt couldn't even properly explain to himself or to others if he tried. Blaine could begin to extrapolate on some subject that Kurt would have thought would never interest him, and yet the way Blaine spoke…or maybe it was the sound of his voice, or the way his eyes caught you… By the time Blaine was done speaking of vampire myths and historical concepts, Kurt found his nose buried in _The Historian_ by Elizabeth Kostova with no real memory of checking it out from the library in the first place, something which frustrated him to no end. It was a good novel, but it made him uneasy – there was something about the older characters that reminded him of…well, _Blaine_, and that was weird on levels he wasn't sure he could properly propagate.

By the third week, Kurt had taken to exploring the nooks and hidden hallways of Dalton's manse on his own, and on some lunches he would simply plug his headphones in and duck through shortcuts to get his lunch and disappear with it before Blaine could claim him for yet another hour of exhaustive interviews about himself. If there was any evidence that existed _before_ this that Kurt was nothing like Rachel Berry, he thought sourly, it was nothing compared to the discovery that he was beginning to _loathe_ talking about himself. How on earth that girl managed to live her entire life drama within the (admittedly small) scope of every eye in New Directions, Kurt would never understand. He missed _privacy_.

One of the many things, however, that was truly driving him stark was the fact that _no one_ else seemed remotely bothered by the strangely fascinating phenomenon that was Blaine Anderson – in fact, the other boy practically had a fan club! Teachers went out of their way to call on him in class and talk to him afterwards; the Warblers granted him any and every solo in a way that was making Kurt almost as envious as he'd been of Rachel months prior; simple suggestions he made often became factual reactions as if he possessed some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion. The only person this _influence_ or _charisma_ or whatever the hell one wanted to call it didn't work on was Kurt himself, something that seemed to frustrate the both of them to no end – Blaine because Kurt was beginning to avoid him, and Kurt because he could _feel_ the hairs rising on his skin like Blaine was increasing his attempts to use it on him and Kurt _loathed_ the idea of the inner sanctuary of his mind not being under his own control.

_But then._

But then, there was the _other_ Blaine, who seemed to exist after the twilight hours once the moon had risen, who would emerge after a ridiculously long shower session even to Kurt with his wild, deliciously curly hair springing all over the place and nothing on his mind but singing wildly along to Madonna and show tunes and Green Day. _That_ Blaine, _Kurt's_ Blaine, as he'd shamefully started to call him, was fast becoming the centre of Kurt's day. They would study together sometimes, but ultimately they would _talk_. And it wasn't _interview_, not like before, but just _talking_. Kurt had found himself taking afternoon trips to the mall in Westerville to stock up on face creams as the dark circles under his eyes grew. He and Blaine would stay up till three, sometimes four in the morning trading stories.

And maybe that was the difference – at night, when it was just the two of them, it was an equal give and take, instead of all focussed on Kurt. At night, the two of them could share the most private thoughts – boys who were cute, something Kurt had never felt entirely comfortable even talking to Mercedes about unless they were celebrities and thus safely unattainable. Kurt had confessed, horribly embarrassed, to initially only hating Jesse St. James because he'd been horribly attracted to the other boy, something he'd been sure that St. James had both noticed and not minded in the least.

"So you think he was bisexual?" Blaine asked.

"I don't think he would have been opposed to the idea mainly because I think he liked the attention," Kurt shrugged.

They discussed music at length, with Kurt finding Blaine's love for alternative rock like Nirvana or Pearl Jam incomprehensible, while Blaine jokingly bashed Kurt's love for Avril Lavigne, agreed with his assessment of Ke$ha as the ultimately guilty pleasure, and they both agreed on the genius of Amy Lee and Evanescence in general (and the epic scope of the argument over Lady Gaga and Katy Perry had enthralled Kurt; he'd never met a music nerd as passionate as he himself was before (and of course he would never admit to Blaine that he quietly conceded the point that all of Gaga's new _Born This Way_ material was stolen at great length from other performers and was rather crap with the exceptions of "Marry the Night," "Yoü and I," and "The Edge of Glory".)). They argued back and forth over which musical was better, and had one night had the hall monitor in to yell at them when their _Wicked_ vs. _The Phantom of the Opera_ debate had led to both of them blasting their iPod docks simultaneously in a duel of "No Good Deed" vs. "The Point of No Return." A winner was never decided, though the laugh had certainly been worth it, Kurt thought fondly.

_That_ Blaine held back no excuses from _touching_ Kurt, and it wasn't even _sensually_ that Kurt was becoming addicted to it. Aside from hand-holding with Quinn on occasion and his father who didn't count, Kurt had no experience with a friend – particularly a _male_ friend – who would notice that he had a bad day and just _hug_ him. Or when they walked through the courtyard at night, would hold Kurt's hand just to warm him up. When they watched movies late at night, they sat thigh-to-thigh and Blaine would wrap Kurt's shoulders in a hug, and sometimes he fell asleep just like that. On those nights he didn't dream at all.

Blaine, no matter which part of him, was holding Kurt entirely in thrall, and much as he tried to fight against it, nothing he did ever seemed to make much of a difference. During the day, as much as he avoided Blaine he also never entirely left his orbit. After being ignored for so long, being the centre of someone else's universe the way he seemed to be to Blaine was intoxicating. And with his slicked-back hair, gentle smile and charismatic personality, Blaine to the rest of the world was as unbelievably attractive as Marlon Brando in those old world Hollywood films that Kurt adored. It made any anger at him for his intrusiveness and at times patronising comments hard to hold onto, in any case.

And Kurt knew that he'd dropped hard when he'd come into the dorm room after a long day and an exhausting test that he just _knew_ he hadn't scored 100 per cent on and Blaine had jumped on him with an excited hug and proceeded to kidnap him to dodge the hall monitors to take him out to dinner so they could go see _Burlesque_ together at the opening midnight showing. They'd bought the soundtrack together a few days before, gushing over Christina Aguilera and Cher teaming up, and sang along to the songs in the back, laughing at inappropriate moments, catcalling at Cam Gigandet's nude scene, and holding hands the entire time. They were the only two in the theatre, like it was their own private bubble, and Kurt felt so deliciously, indescribably _normal_ that it was all he could do not to _kiss_ Blaine for giving him this – or because Kurt was indescribably lost in love with the other boy.

That had been half a week ago and Kurt had ducked out of lunch to wander the grounds. Dalton Academy was unbelievably lush, both inside and out, and Kurt liked to fantasise that he was the hero in some tragic romance like _Pride and Prejudice_ or _Wuthering Heights_ in some of his more imaginative moments. Now, however, he was thankful for the weeping willow that draped over the small pond in the rear grounds; it provided shelter from the frost on the ground, and his overcoat was protection enough to sit on the ground and look out over the water that moved like a mermaid's tail in the wind.

Kurt was wondering on his next move, ignoring the numbness in his skin to marvel at the _lack_ of it in his soul. Despite Blaine's monopolising of his time, Kurt had made _friends_ in the Warblers – Luke, and Tom, and Jack, and the boys in his French class. Boys here were required to keep a high GPA to remain students in good academic standing, and learning was _encouraged_. Smart kids were _popular_ here, and given his high test scores and his status as a Warbler had put Kurt Hummel in the _in crowd_ for the first time in his life. It had been more than three weeks, and he'd not been hit, insulted, pushed… The bruises from McKinley were slow to heal, but they were _healing_.

He looked back down at the letter he was holding that had arrived that morning, and he felt a small smile start to break out on his face. It was from Karofsky, of all people, who had apparently managed to avoid expulsion by attending therapy sessions every day after school with none other than Dr. Shane. Kurt was glad; his memories of that nightmarish morning were still frankly fuzzy, and though he was glad that he'd confronted Karofsky and forced the issue into the open so that it could be dealt with, he'd never wanted to really hurt the other boy in some fit of revenge. _Or maybe this newfound magnanimous attitude stems from not being struck by a slushie in weeks_, Kurt mused wryly.

_Dear Kurt—_

_I'm supposed to be writing this to you this week. Dr. Shane says she'll send it to you if she approves of it. I think she's typing it herself because my spelling isn't so good, so hopefully if you're reading this you can actually read it—shit, that sounds stupid, doesn't it? I have no idea why I'm writing this._

_Sorry doesn't even begin to cover it, does it? I know that you catch major shit from all the jocks around here, and I hear that you're doing real good at that Dalton place, so that's probably a good thing. But I took it too far, and you know why I did it now. My secret's out, at least to one person. My parents haven't said a word about it, even when they talked to your dad (he's scary, Hummel). I don't think you actually told anyone. I can't believe you didn't tell anyone. I would have. That's really decent of you. I can't thank you enough for it._

_I bet you'd be surprised what's going on around here. The slushie machine is gone. Sylvester stepped down from principal in protest when the school board went ahead and tried to expel you before the transfer went through, but before she did it one of her last hurrahs was to get rid of the slushie machine. There aren't any real rules or anything, but the last kid she saw shoving someone around, Johnson, she got him booted from the team so now we're down a wide end and he's not saying shit to no one._

_I guess what I'm really trying to say is I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I went so nuts. I'm sorry that I made you scared. That Berry chick locked me in the choir room with her and made me watch all these news stories about gay kids that killed themselves because of guys like me. Like…us. I'm sorry._

_Dave_

Not even two weeks ago, Kurt would have thrown it away without reading it, so maybe he was growing as a person. He snorted wryly and tucked the letter underneath his notebook. It was a private thing – and maybe that was why he couldn't entirely hate Karofsky, even after everything. Coming out to oneself was a deeply private, personal thing, and some people never did it completely. Trying to do all of that while attending WMHS, Kurt could personally attest, was no easy feat. Maybe in another life, if he hadn't had the friends he'd had or the father he was blessed with, _he_ would have ended up something like Karofsky. _And speaking of my father_, Kurt thought with a twinge of guilt.

Burt had been walking on eggshells around Kurt since the outburst at the hospital, something which Kurt had tried to apologise for. He would _never_ hate his father; he'd been angry and tired and stressed out beyond anything he'd ever thought possible. But aside from a weak argument where Burt had tried to convince Kurt to restart his sessions with Dr. Shane – something to which Kurt had flatly refused – they had reached a mutual agreement to not talk about the issue and instead focussed on transferring Kurt to Dalton as quickly as possible before the school board could call for a formal vote on expulsion, which Sylvester had apparently tipped Burt off they were already trying to do.

Kurt's friends had actually had to come to the house to say goodbye to him, as Burt had put his foot down and told Kurt that if he attempted to commit possible suicide by setting one foot back in that school ever again, he'd be grounded for the rest of his existence. It had taken Kurt aback; he'd never even so much as had his phone privileges revoked before, unless he counted the brief time separated from his car after Mercedes' window-bashing incident (which he didn't, as it had only lasted a week once his father had realised that without a car Kurt would once again need Burt to give him rides everywhere).

But they _had_ turned up, and Kurt had been surprised by the turnout. Quinn had been a bit reserved with him, but she'd still given him a fierce hug and made him swear to keep in constant contact. Sam had given him a copy of _Pointe Blanc_, an Alex Rider novel, and the first season of _Alias_ with the promise that "If you need to spy-fi your way out of there, these'll totally do the trick." Puck had grunted something that sounded like good-luck before standing back in the corner awkwardly. Tina and Mercedes had bought him ridiculous amounts of new clothes to "impress the new boys" before they'd both started sobbing, something which made Kurt distinctly uncomfortable. Rachel, of course, had bought him a copy of Barbra Streisand's latest _Greatest Hits_ collection before loudly pronouncing that none of them could share glee secrets with Kurt any longer as he was now officially an enemy. Finn and Mike had awkwardly wished him good-luck, with Finn looking like he wanted to say something else but wasn't sure what.

Santana had shocked the hell out of him by pulling him into a fierce hug and whispered into his ear, "You were the only one who stood up to me, gay kid. What do we do now?" Before he could respond, she'd pulled back and punched him hard on the shoulder, wished him a good-luck, and pulled back so that Artie and Brittany could give him goodbyes as well – and in Brittany's case a large rubber dolphin that looked like it came from a science museum with 'gay shark' scrawled on the belly in permanent marker. Kurt looked at this askance, but everyone else just shrugged, so he put it carefully with his other presents and decided to wonder about it later.

Feeling a tad guilty, Kurt stood up from the cold ground and resolved to talk to them all later that day; aside from Facebook messaging Mercedes and Tina and emailing back and forth with Quinn, he hadn't given New Directions much thought since his departure – something that would have to be remedied, he thought a little guiltily, considering that sectionals was looming at the end of the weekend. He didn't really know how he felt about the competition – if New Directions lost, there was a very good possibility that a reinstalled Figgins would cut the club. But the competitive streak in him wouldn't let him just arbitrarily _lose_, either. And with Blaine helming both of the songs they would be singing at regionals and the highly talented Warblers backing him, there was a very good chance that the Warblers would take the competition; the charisma that Kurt had been reflecting on in Blaine was only more apparent when he was singing, almost like a snake charmer to a captive serpentine audience.

"Kurt!" Blaine called, and Kurt started in surprise. He'd never had anyone interrupt him by the willow before, and he parted the curtain of branches to see Blaine heading toward him with a fixed expression on his face. Kurt fought down the jolt his heart gave when Blaine looked at him, gathered himself together, and stepped out to join him. "I was looking for you at lunch today," Blaine said evenly.

"I had a lot on my mind," Kurt replied, just as smoothly. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say to Blaine just now; yesterday afternoon at Warbler practise Kurt had jokingly suggested performing one of the numbers from _Burlesque_ and Blaine had shot him down coldly, almost angrily, and offered no explanation later that night. In fact, it kind of stung that the Warblers had apparently been so impressed by him that they let him in without an audition and yet he didn't have so much as one line of a solo at sectionals yet again.

"What were you thinking about?" Blaine asked, fixing Kurt with one of his piercing stares. Kurt returned it, shuttering his thoughts automatically.

"Sectionals," he half-lied blandly. "I was thinking about solos at sectionals."

"I should apologise for my behaviour at practise yesterday," Blaine said after a moment, moving forward with the calm assurance of one who knows he will be followed. Kurt fell into step next to him. "I can be…very competitive, and the idea of presenting a striptease number from _Burlesque_ to a panel of judges struck me as a bad idea."

"That would be why it was a joke," Kurt said smartly. "Me wanting a solo? That wasn't."

"Well, there is always regionals, once we win sectionals," Blaine reminded him jovially.

"You're awfully sure of yourself. New Directions is extremely good, once they get their act together," Kurt argued, unsure of which side he was defending.

"But we will win," Blaine said confidently. "Now that they don't have you anymore."

And that warmed Kurt up all the way into the building.

**888**

It wasn't until Kurt was leaving French class that he noticed it. He'd been so caught up in the oral presentation he was presenting to the class that he hadn't given his things much thought. But he happened to glance down at his notebook on his way out of the classroom, and that was when he noticed that the flap of computer paper wasn't sticking out of the ends of the notebook. _The letter!_ Acting on pure instinct and anger, Kurt stalked through the hallways at a fast clip, vaguely satisfied to see boys moving out of his way, making it easier to reach the English wing first, in time to catch Blaine moving out of his composition class. "Blaine!" he snapped, and Blaine turned his head. He didn't look one bit surprised to see Kurt both there and angry, and that just served to piss Kurt off even more.

"Kurt. I'd like to speak to you," Blaine said quietly. The other boys around them were giving them a wide berth as Blaine led them to a quiet, private adjourning hallway. "Were you looking for this?" Blaine asked, holding aloft the letter.

"How _dare_ you take that," Kurt said quietly. He glared at Blaine. "That was completely private."

"What exactly, may I ask, were you _thinking_, allowing this boy to contact you?" Blaine asked coldly, imperiously. The tone in his voice stopped Kurt cold. "Need I remind you that he molested you, beat you, and tried to _kill_ you?"

"No, actually – I've been _trying_ to forget about that," Kurt said angrily. "And I would think that as my _friend_ you would leave it alone; not to mention that you wouldn't _steal_ my private letters while I wasn't looking. How the hell did you get it out of my notebook to begin with?"

"I don't want you speaking to David Karofsky ever again," Blaine said quietly, his voice full of a soft-spoken menace that made Kurt's skin crawl. For just one eerie second Blaine's entire body seemed to darken, like a wave cresting beneath the surface, and then it was gone and Kurt was confused and hurt. And still _angry_. He lunged forward before Blaine could move and snatched the letter back.

"That's not your decision to make," Kurt replied coldly, breathing hard. "As a matter of fact, I've been invited to the French club to discuss our final projects for the year, so if you'll _excuse_ me, I've better places to be than _this_."

Blaine's face darkened with anger. "If you wish it," he snapped in a brittle voice, before he began to walk away.

"If I wish it?" Kurt snapped. "You know what, Blaine? Go to hell!"

He stormed away without a backward glance, feeling tears smarting at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away angrily; he would _not_ cry over this. Ducking into a bathroom to compose himself, Kurt took a deep breath. The easy calm of that morning was long gone, and once more his head was in a tailspin thanks to Blaine Anderson.

He splashed some cold water on his face, making sure that outwardly he looked as calm as ever. Kurt knew that he couldn't make excuses for Blaine's inexcusable behaviour, but didn't a friend have a right to be worried? Karofsky _had_ put Kurt through hell when he was still trapped at McKinley – sure, this was taking things two steps too far, but… Kurt resolutely decided that he was going to confront Blaine tonight and force him to explain himself. Things just _couldn't_ go along the way they had been lately; Blaine's mercurial personality was starting to infect Kurt, and no matter how infatuated he was with Blaine, he wasn't going to put up with that. Kurt was _happy_ at Dalton; the academia was challenging and interesting, the peers were smart and friendly, and he was not going to let confusion over the boy he had an inappropriately large crush on affect that negatively.

Tonight. He would confront Blaine tonight, after he'd calmed down. For now, Kurt chose to give Blaine a wide berth. He went out with the French club that afternoon to a cosy coffee shop down the road.

It was a decision he regretted for the rest of his life.

**888**

By the time Kurt was pulling back into the Dalton parking lot, he had calmed down considerably. The French club trip had been relaxing, downing coffee at one of the local spots and discussing the upcoming summer trip to France – to actual _Paris_! Of course there were educational tours planned, but in the free time Kurt would actually get a chance to visit some of the actual runways where the likes of Gaultier and Versace had first premiered their magisterial work! Kurt loved singing and acting and he knew that Broadway was his most fervent dream, but he would never give up his love of fashion. Besides, once he achieved some level of success, he would certainly be able to model some of the clothing lines. _Some models actually get to _keep_ the originals tailored for their runway efforts_, he thought giddily.

He had also taken some time that afternoon to call his father; he winced guiltily as he remembered the almost surprised pleasure in Burt's voice on speaking to his son and Kurt swore that he would pencil in more phone calls. On the upside, Burt seemed thrilled that Kurt was enjoying Dalton as much as he was, and Kurt was, in turn, happy to hear that Carole had been systematically setting up dates for the two of them. He was definitely going to start calling more often. Maybe he could even spend a night back in Lima after sectionals was finished; hell, maybe that would give him a chance to try to patch things up with Finn, among others. He fished his phone out of his pocket as he punched the car lock button and thumbed the touchpad, frowning when nothing happened. _I could've _sworn_ it was fully charged before I called dad…I didn't talk to him _that_ long…_

The first roiling pain hit him square in the gut, like a vicious onset of cramps heralding food poisoning. Kurt gasped and staggered; the agony was exquisite and from absolutely nowhere. It was over as soon as it started and he was left alone, clutching his stomach like a lunatic and gazing around wildly. _That is the _last_ time I set foot in that café_, he thought, or started to, before another phantom pain shot through him, this time through his head – a flashpoint migraine so fierce he nearly screamed, gritting his teeth against the onslaught. It _hurt_ – oh, Gaga did it _hurt_ – but it was _nothing_ compared to the third pain. This one hit him right in the heart like a scorpion's sting, piercing through him.

It was a rush of pain, of anger, of despair, of _feeling_, and in that moment Kurt knew complete and utter torment, for just a moment – an orchestra of pain, a symphony of madness, and timpani of horror…

And then it was over. The pain was gone, but not the feeling. Kurt staggered to his feet and surged toward the school, unsure what was driving him on but utterly certain that he had to just _get_ there. It was a look mirrored on the faces of the other boys when he charged into the lobby. There were nearly all of the Warblers, waiting for him with grave looks on their faces, and Kurt skidded to a halt. "What's wrong?" he asked, trying hard not to pant.

"I'm sorry, Kurt," Blaine said suddenly, sounding not at all sorry. His voice sounded flat, dead; it lacked all of the warmth of _Blaine_ that Kurt associated with the evening hours and also all of the charisma and resonant power that usually rolled behind those lilting tones. He stared at Kurt, his face expressionless. "David Karofsky committed suicide earlier this afternoon."

_**To Be Concluded…**_


	4. Part III: Mer Girl

Glee

_The Hollow Men, Part III_

_(Mer Girl)_

_I ran and I ran—_

_I'm looking there still_

_And I saw the crumbling tombstones_

_All the forgotten names_

_I tasted the rain, I tasted my tears_

_I cursed the angels, I tasted my fears_

_And the ground gave way beneath my feet_

_And the Earth took me in Her arms_

_Leaves covered my face_

_Ants marched across my back_

_The black sky opened up, blinding me_

_I ran to the forest, I ran to the trees_

_I ran and I ran—I was looking for me_

_I ran to the lakes, and up to the hill_

_I ran and I ran—I'm looking there still_

_And I smelled her burning flesh_

_Her rotting bones_

_Her decay…_

_I ran and I ran—_

_I'm still running away_

—from "Mer Girl" by Madonna

"_Two silver chalices, the teardrop of a mermaid, and water from the Fountain of Youth. One chalice will contain the tear, the other will not. Whoever drinks from the chalice with the tear will have their life extended…"_

—from "Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides"

"_By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil: by committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use this to his advantage…You split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die…"_

—from "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince"

"_Alice, you cannot live your life to please others—the choice must be yours…because when you step out to face that creature, you will step out alone."_

—from "Alice in Wonderland"

**Prelude.**

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

_My feet dragged across the ground_

_And he took me to the river_

_Where he slowly let me drown_

_My love has concrete feet_

_My love's an iron bar_

_Wrapped around your ankles_

_Over the waterfall_

_I'm so heavy—heavy_

_So heavy in your arms_

—from "Heavy in Your Arms" by Florence + The Machine

When Quinn first woke up, she wasn't entirely sure at first _why_. It had been hard enough to get to sleep in the first place, after that morning. She had tossed and turned for an hour thinking about that scared boy who had come to see her, to beg her for her help – help she couldn't give. What could she possibly have _said_? Had she even helped him at all, even the smallest bit? She turned the memory over and over, wondering if there was something else she could have said, some small difference she might have made. He had certainly _told_ her that she'd helped him, but the look in his eyes had scared her. It wasn't haunted so much as grim acceptance – but acceptance of _what_? Quinn sighed and gave sleep up as a loss. Down the hall she could vaguely hear her mother snoring, and Quinn envied the woman her easy slumber.

Quinn sat up in bed and glanced around, but something stopped her. It was a feeling, almost like a needle prick – that vague sense of déjà vu when one _knows_ that something is indefinably _wrong_ but it's unable to be articulated. The air smelled heavy, like ozone, and outside she was startled to see that a storm had raged through the night while she slept and was just now petering off to clearer skies.

The hints of moonlight showing through the clouds glinted on the drops of rain clinging to the blades of grass like cold, hard diamond, coating the earth in a faerie glow that was absolutely breathtaking and yet wickedly creepy at the same time. The entire night felt like something out of time, out of place, and she can't help the shiver that wracked her body. Quinn could practically sense the goose bumps trailing down her back. _It isn't _real_,_ she thought, oddly enough. Quinn contemplated whether or not she was actually even awake in the first place, or if this was all actually an increasingly disturbing, waking nightmare.

That was when she felt that niggling _strangeness_ once more that had woken her in the first place this dark and stormy night.

She was…_needed_, somewhere, somehow – something is horribly wrong and the entire night was screaming it at her, over and over again; and underneath this pulsating sensation of horror there is a _need_ thrumming through her like a second heartbeat. _Come—please—help…_

Quinn stumbled, clutching her head. This wasn't happening—it wasn't _possible_—and yet it was the single most important thing in her entire life. This was the final culmination of…_something_ and it had everything to do with the boy in her living room that afternoon. She was only dressed in her white nightgown and her long blonde hair blew wildly about her face while the wind shrieked _murder_. She wore no shoes and looked like an old Russian _ikon_ of a martyred saint as she ran toward the car.

She had no keys but the car _started_ and she was flying down the highway and her feet hadn't touched the accelerator. Her heart beat a rabbit's tattoo against her chest and the drumming pulse drowned out all thought or reason. The speedometer was passing 120 and trying to rise. Quinn was terrified – not only not only of the phantom driver but of the destination. She isn't an idiot; she knows they're driving steadily north.

Quinn swallowed bile down and the car skidded toward the dark towers of Dalton Academy. She had burnt rubber slamming into the parking lot. Why were there no lights on? No guards or boys to stop a half-mad teenage girl sprinting into the place as if her life depended on it? She ran and ran and ran, her hair and skirt flowing behind her in a ghostly reflection, following a call she couldn't understand. She stopped when she reached the doors of the library. Opened the doors. Felt the blood beneath her bare feet.

Quinn screamed.

_This will be my last confession:_

'_I love you' never felt like any blessing, oh_

_Whisper it like it's a secret_

_Uttered to condemn the one who hears it_

_With a heavy heart…_

**Prologue.**

**1347—England**

_The very first to die was the man who had killed her mother._

_When Amelia called Leomaris down, he answered to her eagerly. The man who had watched an innocent woman burn for spurning his affections… Amelia watched him without a qualm as the spirit possessed him, his body bearing the signs: black eyes, the veins of his lifeblood burning black, and the aura around him darkening and glowing with power. The man began to shake and to scream as his heart exploded within his chest, blood boiling from his mouth and nose and eyes. He had thought that he held power over them all, and yet he collapsed at her feet, dead, a lifeless husk and worth nothing but the dirt. She spit on the ground next to him._

_Next were those fools who ran the church, who had watched her mother's mockery of a trial, watched her stuck with pins until she no longer cried in pain to find a 'witch's spot,' and sentenced her to death despite the fact that most of their children had only survived a plague sweeping the town due to her mother's ministrations. They screamed at her of hell, but they knew nothing of the world. She watched them die, thrown around the church like dolls._

_The orgy of destruction was a seductive thing; it was _easy_ to destroy, and Amelia fed off of the hate in her own heart easily enough. But it wasn't until she felt a frantic tugging on her cloak that she looked down and spotted a frightened child staring up at her. "Please make him leave Daddy alone!" the girl begged, and Amelia froze. No one should have been able to see Leomaris but her; they were not witches like her—they could not see spirits. She ran with the child from the courthouse, where she had last loosed her daemon upon the judge himself, and into the main street, stopping in horror._

_Leomaris was killing _everyone_. She saw innocents everywhere – farmers impaled on their own pitchforks, women clutching at their dead children and screaming before they too were struck down. And everywhere there was blood; Amelia turned and fought back the urge to scream herself._

_He was standing, almost corporeal, visible to everyone, feeding off of every death. Things that should have been impossible becoming all too easy for the monster; he raised a hand and lifted a wagon, tossing it into four men who were trying to shield their wives. The wagon caught fire as soon as it crushed the men, the blistering inferno consuming not only the women, but the houses behind them. Leomaris, realising his power, commanded the flames as well, and it spread like plague from house to house, burning the village to the ground. She heard a scream next to her and cried out as the child beside her went stiff, her eyes blackening and veins darkening before she collapsed, blood pouring from her. "NO!"_

_But it was too late; the child was dead. Screams and screams rose up around her like a hellish symphony, but there was no calling back the force that she had unleashed. What had she _done_? Her mother had warned her, had told her—but she had been so blinded by revenge, by her own power… "Leomaris, STOP!" she screamed, but it was too late. The village was burnt, gone; the villagers dead. The unnaturally beautiful demon turned to her and in the blink of an eye was by her side._

"_Where do they go, these things I strike down?" he asked curiously, and she screamed._

"_They are _dead_, you beast! They have ceased to exist!"_

"_Nothing can cease to exist," Leomaris said uneasily._

"_Everything dies," Amelia said bitterly, dropping to her knees beside the little dead girl who had asked for her help._

"_I will not," Leomaris said strongly. "I do not want to end."_

"_That is no longer your decision to make," Amelia decreed, staggering to her feet. "I will banish you back to whence you came!"_

"_You can't," Leomaris snarled back, his eyes darkening in anger. "You are bound by your agreement, witch – you will give me human form!"_

"_I would never grant that kind of power to you!" Amelia screamed. "You destroy everything you touch!"_

"_Am I not a god of one of your stories?" Leomaris asked, his face splitting in a smile too horrible to behold. "I decide who lives and who dies!"_

"_You are no god! You are a child granted power—power that I will take from you!" Amelia raged. "You had no right to kill these people!"_

"_But I had the right to kill only the ones you wanted dead? A strange contract, witch," Leomaris replied._

"_I was wrong!" Amelia whispered pitifully._

"_You were not wrong! You gave in to your true nature and it was beautiful to me! This world is beautiful to me, and _you_ have given it to me!" Leomaris exulted. "With every death, I can feed off of the human spirit more and more; I've never felt such power! When I am granted a body, I will rule this earth!"_

"_I will never grant that to you," Amelia repeated, her heart pounding._

"_You do not have a choice," Leomaris said coldly, and surged towards her._

**Part II.**

_2010—Lima, Ohio_

_Pass me that lovely little gun_

_My dear, my darling one_

_Forgive us now for what we've done_

_It started out as a bit of fun_

_He's found the answer that we lost_

_We're all weeping now, weeping because_

_There's nothing we can do to protect you_

_O children_

_Lift up your voice, lift up your voice_

_O children_

_Rejoice! Rejoice_

_Hey little train, wait for me_

_I once was blind but now I see_

_We're happy, ma, we're having fun_

_But the train ain't even left the station…_

—from "O Children" by Nick Cave + The Bad Seeds

For two days, Kurt avoided Blaine like a plague, despite the other boy's intentions otherwise. The Warblers were giving him space, which he appreciated; he didn't show up to the final practise session before sectionals. Considering that he was only a part of the vocal harmony for one of the two planned songs and was otherwise expected to simply hum along and join the shuffle-step a capella movements, Kurt didn't feel that he suffered much from it.

These were, of course, ordinary and everyday things that he could focus on; they kept his mind off of the news report that had followed that next morning. David Karofsky had been found dead by his parents, an unnamed source at the hospital had revealed. The news was quick to link it to Karofsky's new therapy sessions, his fights and odd behaviour at school, all fuelled by Dr. Shane's office refusing all comment. The boy had been found locked in his bathroom, hiding from the rest of the world, with two slash marks to his wrists. There had been no note.

In some awful way, that was what Kurt was focussing on more than anything: his burning need to know _why_. Why now? Why on earth would he have written Kurt that letter sounding like he was getting his life back on track, to turn around and do this to himself? To his parents? In one of the psychology elective semesters Kurt had taken last year, it had been mentioned that suicides often reached out in some way to those they felt had some connection to the planned event, but there were warning signs in those outreaches – sorrow, guilt, vague allusions to goodbyes. There had been none of that in Karofsky's letter, only apology and hope.

Kurt's mind felt like it had been scrambled and fed through a blender, piece by piece. He couldn't focus in class or out of it. And for reasons he couldn't fully articulate, not even to himself, he _could not_ bear to be around Blaine – _either_ Blaine, if he were to resort to thinking about it like that. Maybe the letter _had_ held some clue to the disastrous decision that had ended a boy's life; maybe if he, Kurt, had not been so selfishly wrapped up in the mystery of the boy he was crushing on, he would have caught that clue and…what? What could he really have done? It was the helplessness of his agency that found Kurt curled up in a hardback chair in one of Dalton's many sitting rooms the night before sectionals, his history book open on the table in front of him and his eyes staring into the fireplace while a gentle snowfall iced the world outside cold as any crypt.

His mother had had a necklace, one that he still had in a jewellery box which tinkled "My Favourite Things" from _The Sound of Music_ if it were wound up. It was a golden phoenix flying from faux red rubies signifying fire around its tail. The phoenix was his mother's favourite faerie tale, one she'd told him endlessly: a gorgeous bird, the oldest in the world, would awake one day and see pain and sorrow around her. She would fly through the world, singing a song of sorrow, until she reached Heliopolis, the City of the Sun, and gather the ingredients for her nest. Then she would fly to the highest tree, and sing the last notes of her song before the rising sun hit her nest. The nest would catch fire, and the bird would die – but be reborn, younger and more beautiful than before, singing a song of hope, from the ashes. This way mankind would know that hope could never truly die.

Kurt snorted bitterly – his mother had been more of a dark phoenix, he supposed. She'd burnt and never risen from the ashes of his childhood, like so much of himself, his belief in things beyond him. It was that belief bubbling to the surface that was leading him to avoid Blaine, that much he knew. Quinn's doubts, his own observations… He had questions about Blaine that might never have answers to suit his logical world, and that thought terrified him because it meant that on some core level he had already accepted a fantastical truth, even if he had not admitted it to himself.

Kurt stared into the fire and thought of the streaks of gold in his mother's hair, streaks he himself inherited if he spent too long in the sun. He wondered morbidly if he were to follow in her footsteps, a dark phoenix as well. Was he nearing his nest now? Was he in ashes already?

"You've been avoiding me," Blaine noted, walking into the room. Kurt nodded, not bothering trying to lie. Blaine always knew when he was being lied to – at least, this version of Blaine; the mere power in the timbre of his voice immediately alerted him to the fact that his night-time friend was not to be, not tonight. Blaine didn't seem surprised that Kurt had known he was there. Kurt was hyperaware of Blaine, had felt the hairs on his arms rising as if with unstoppable electricity as soon as the other boy had set foot in the room. What did that say about him? About Blaine? About _them_?

"I understand," Blaine said calmly. Kurt fixed him with an incredulous look, which Blaine simply returned evenly. "You're upset about the situation with Karofsky, and I'm not. I can understand why—"

"You _should_ be upset," Kurt interrupted coldly. "He was a human being."

"He was an animal," Blaine bit out, his teeth ground together, but the loss of control was quickly smoothed over and he offered Kurt an apologetic smile that Kurt didn't buy for an instant. "But you're right. He _was_ a human being, in the end. We all are, aren't we?" Before Kurt could begin to sort out the inflections behind that, Blaine balanced his portable iPod dock on the table between them. Kurt arched an eyebrow but said nothing. "You missed Warbler practise yesterday. We all missed you," Blaine continued, picking up the thread of calmness. "_I_ missed you," he continued, his voice softening, going oddly, lusciously intimate. Kurt found himself leaning forward despite himself and forcibly told his body to stop.

"I had a lot on my mind," Kurt said, his voice uneven. Damn it, _where_ was his anger from before?

"But I know how much you love to sing, little phoenix," Blaine said wistfully, and Kurt froze, his entire skin crawling with horror. His _mother_ used to call him that—how the _hell_… "I was rather hoping that you would sing with me, here, tonight. Before sectionals tomorrow, to help. You know, with nerves."

"I'd rather not," Kurt forced out, glued to his seat by god only knew what. "I don't have any solos tomorrow anyway; if I'm not on pitch it's hardly noticeable."

"It's noticeable to _me_," Blaine said, as if that not only explained everything but also justified it. Kurt wanted to glare at him; he looked up and jerked in surprise when he noticed that Blaine was sitting across from him – he'd moved so silently, like he'd glided across the floor rather than walked. His eyes were trapped in the dark depths of Blaine's stare, and Kurt once more thought of a bird and serpent. Given his recent musings, he didn't much like the comparison. "_Please_, Kurt. Sing with me?"

"Okay," Kurt whispered, before he could bite it back. Blaine's face lit up as if Kurt had just granted his deepest wish, and for one aching moment he was so _beautiful_ that it was like he was from another _world_, far, far from this one, and Kurt shivered when the moment passed. Blaine winked at him roguishly and pressed _Play_. _Oh, no_, Kurt thought when the bars of the song picked up – but the music seemed to only draw him closer to Blaine. Kurt danced away, a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and sang.

_I really can't stay—_

_**But, baby, it's cold outside**_

_I've got to go away—_

_**But, baby, it's cold outside**_

_This evening has been so very nice—_

_**I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice**_

For every bar that Kurt sang, Blaine had an answer; part of Kurt thrilled at the easy tension that swirled with the song while part of him trembled. It wasn't so much a dance they were leading as some twisted version of cat and mouse – Kurt moved, Blaine followed. Kurt put the sofa between them and Blaine simply leapt with leonine grace over the top, drawing closer. He wasn't letting Kurt get away, and the stakes, the stakes with this were too high…

_I wish I knew how—_

_**Your eyes are like starlight now**_

_To break this spell—_

_**I'll take your hat; your hair looks swell**_

Somehow, Blaine had trapped Kurt against the door, and Kurt knew that his heart was beating like a rabid animal's as their voices swelled together, powerful and harmonious and wonderful as the song reached its end. He couldn't move. He was terrified…

Blaine's eyes devoured every centimetre of his face as he moved in and their lips met. Kurt let out a moan that shocked him as electricity, shocking, _powerful_, tingled from his lips and zipped through his entire body. His heart was beating a tripwire and he couldn't _move_, couldn't _think_. It was like a vampire's kiss – he was helpless, fading, sapping… He pulled back, fighting an urge to sob he could not understand – it was _beautiful_ and it was… Kurt looked up, and screamed when Blaine pulled back.

His face was dark, flushed; his veins flickered like spider-webs over his face, his eyes were black as a doll's, as a predator's, the _eyes_ which were _his_ eyes that had stalked Kurt his entire life—

"_**Kurt**_—"

Kurt _shoved_ Blaine, as hard as he possibly could, once more feeling that rush of _something_ from deep, deep within him surging to the fore, that some _something_ that he had felt a taste of in the locker room with Karofsky, a day that seemed like years ago, a different time, a different life.

"NO!" Kurt roared, and Blaine was flying backward with a shout, but Kurt had already sprinted out of the door.

**888**

On the bus ride to sectionals the next day, Kurt was one of the first to board. Wes, who had taken it upon himself to make a clipboard and check off the members one by one – ever the stickler for rules – had given a double-take when he saw Kurt. "You look awful, Kurt," Wes remarked, sounding concerned. "Did you sleep last night?"

"Not much," Kurt said truthfully. In fact, he had barely slept at all. After running in a blind panic from the impossible vision in the sitting room, Kurt had stumbled into the empty conservatory. The room had been a gift from some wealthy parents' function at some point; Kurt had only ever seen it during the tour that he'd received upon transferring to Dalton in the first place. It was a lovely place; the windows were designed like greenhouse windows and it was full of plants year-round. The air smelled thick and the moonlight sliced through the night eerily, the stark white light making the flowers as menacing as nightshade. It looked like a witch's garden.

Kurt had shut the door and locked it, and spent most of the impossibly long night trying desperately to convince himself that what he'd seen was just a trick of the light, or another one of his hallucinations, quick to come on and quick to recede. There was no way that Blaine…

—_Amelia called forth every last ounce of power left to her, drawing it from the earth like her mamma had taught her, whispering her apology to her mother's spirit for not listening to her sooner. But that didn't matter now; what mattered was drawing the power around her like a blade and plunging it into the heart of the spirit's existence. Leomaris _screamed_, loud enough to shatter glass, and she _pushed_ and _pushed_ until the cruel caricature of a man dissolved into a million pieces too small for her to see. Amelia scattered him to the four winds, draining the power he'd gained from the deaths of the innocent, but she could still feel him, drawing on the power she had invoked to draw him into this world. He would take the power from her…_

_She ran into the woods, the cinders of the village trailing behind her_—

What little sleep he'd gotten had, of course, been interrupted by nightmares, and he'd jolted awake again.

Kurt had plugged his headphones in and clicked his iPod to shuffle through whatever it liked, not really paying attention to the music but using it as background distraction instead. He chose the seat behind the bus driver, traditionally where the teacher sat, as it was designed to only hold one person. As the Warblers were a student-run organisation, their chaperone for the event was Mr. Clary, the band director, who gave Kurt a look upon entering but sat in a different seat anyway. Kurt could care less, as long as he was left alone.

He received a few unexpected shoulder squeezes from some of his friends in the group – Luke and David and Zach, particularly, and Kurt supposed that they had assumed he was still upset over the news of Karofsky. There was no way to tell them that… Kurt frowned and rested his head against the window, staring out over the Dalton grounds with unseeing eyes. He pretended not to notice when Blaine boarded the bus, or when Blaine stood over him for a second, their shadows mingling like smoke from a fire. It was an apt comparison, Kurt mused; Blaine's kiss had been like fire, possessing, consuming, burning through every part of Kurt's being. Maybe _that_ had been what caused the…vision; Kurt had never felt so _bare_ in front of another before, like Blaine had, during that one instant of inferno, peered into Kurt's most private being.

But that thought was just as ridiculous as any other, and really Kurt had nothing to solidly grant him an excuse for running away last night. There were two options – the first, that he was slowly spiralling into insanity; or the second, that he had actually seen what he'd thought he saw last night and that Blaine was somehow supernaturally connected to every moment leading up to Kurt's transfer to Dalton Academy. _Insanity, then_, Kurt decided grimly, and resolutely continued to stare out of the window as the bus began rolling toward Columbus.

For one brief moment, Kurt thought of a different bus ride to Columbus – a different _Kurt_, then, it seemed. He'd been sitting next to Mercedes, awash with the glow of actually having a real, true, best friend, whispering gossip and fashion to each other. They were all cheering Artie being able to ride with them, and they were full of terror but hope, as well. They might not have had Finn, but they were rolling out of _Lima_ and toward something _bigger_, and the irresistible buzz that went along with that prospect had had them all humming their songs under their breath.

The thought of that boy and his friends had Kurt fighting back tears, and he angrily turned the volume up on his iPod to drown out his thoughts. That part of his life was _over_ now – no matter how much he might wish for it back.

He pretended not to notice Blaine's dark eyes that never left the back of his head, not once, the entire journey.

**888**

When the glee clubs were given their programs and sent off to their respective green rooms, Kurt glanced down and noted with little interest that they were slated to go second. When the Warblers split to go down the hallway, Kurt lingered back and walked away from them. He walked slowly, ambling with little purpose, feeling a bit like a zombie in a horror movie. He was trying to find that icy core inside of himself that he had once hid behind so well, numb to everything, including himself, but it was getting harder and harder to find that within himself.

Kurt drifted from hall to hall, avoiding the main crushes of people, reflecting on how hard he'd worked to push people away from him. It _hurt_ to care, to know what people thought of you and to have to face it every day. Kurt remembered when this had all began, behind that wall of numbness, it had been a burden to simply wake up some days, wanting nothing but to sleep forever and ever. The problem was, Kurt was _awake_ now, in ways that he hadn't been in so long, and he didn't know if he could truly trade this awareness of the world around him for that withdrawal. The world was painful, all sharp edges and pitfalls, but in that pain there was a sort of beauty that he couldn't even explain.

Kurt stopped in the atrium, surrounded in a crush of people, of _life_, and he wondered, not for the first time, what his mother would say if she were there.

"Kurt!"

He turned around and smiled when he saw Rachel shoving her way carelessly through the crowd toward him, a smile on her face. "Hello, Rachel," he replied, the warmth in his own voice surprising him. Rachel might have been completely self-centred at times, downright mean at others, but she was the only person in all of Lima who had ever truly understood that his being gay had nothing to do with who he was, and who had not only shared with but _known_ his desire to fly far and fast away from that place.

"Come on, over here!" she dictated, as usual leading the way and expecting the world to follow her. Kurt grinned bemusedly as she directed them to the snack bar, where she hopped up on a seat and promptly ordered a horrifying amount of candy. At Kurt's look, she launched into a litany of complaints against Lauren Zizes, and Kurt smirked as he was quickly caught up on the constant influx of drama in New Directions; Mercedes might fancy herself the queen of gossip, but Rachel spread more than even she herself knew due to her inability to _stop_ talking about a subject even if she knew consciously that she shouldn't reveal a part of it.

"But enough about _us_; how is it going with the Warblers? What solo are you singing—no, never mind, don't tell me _that_; that would be cheating," Rachel commented turning to him. There was a world of simple, uncomplicated hopes in her eyes, and Kurt could see every one of them like petals off the rose – a desire to win, to be a star, to fix things with Finn, to prove herself, to be liked by her friends. He _couldn't_ open up to her about the happenings at Dalton, and see her eyes lose that shining, so he just smiled and nodded. "You really should know, Kurt that _nobody_ blames you for leaving – I mean, not that you had much of a choice there, toward the end. What I _mean_ is that we all feel terribly about not noticing how bad it had gotten and helping you, with…Karofsky." She said his name softly and looked down, probably praying. Kurt reached his hand out and took hers in his.

"I'm doing fine, Rachel," he told her, giving her hand a squeeze for reassurance.

"Good," she said, just as firmly. She launched forward then in an unexpected hug, squeezing half the life out of him. "The Kurt I know would be going crazy about the competition," Rachel whispered. "Don't you _dare_ go easy on us, Kurt Hummel." She drew back, giving him a misty smile, before she gathered up her snacks. "Time to go deliver these to Jemima the Hun," she said. "Break a leg!" And then she was gone, and Kurt was left to stare after her, something big and painful and beautiful swelling within him.

Rachel was _right_ – he wanted to _win_, he wanted to be selfish and damn the consequences. Kurt thought back to another time, another life – the _end_ of that bus ride, when they had all stood together and _sang_. They'd fucking _owned_ it, and they'd taken that giant trophy from sectionals and known for just that instant that they were _worth_ something, no matter what any Lima loser ever wanted to say to them. Kurt had remembered then every fantasy of standing before a sold-out crowd to perform "Defying Gravity," feeling really and truly like _nothing_ could bring him down, and god, he _ached_ to feel that again.

Breathing deeply, Kurt stood up from his stool and headed back into the crush of humanity, for once not feeling separate from them, but _one_ of them – a conglomeration of hopes and dreams and feelings, fragile and destructible but beautiful for the sheer mortality of it all. By the time he made it back to the Warblers' green room, he was practically bursting from wanting to smile so much. It took a moment for it to sink in that everyone in the room was frowning, Blaine most of all.

"What's up?" Kurt asked, confused. Thad and John were both looking down at the ground, shamefaced, and Wes looked absolutely carved from stone. "What's wrong?" he changed tack.

"There's been a spot of bother," Wes grated out slowly. "Thad and John don't want their solos anymore. There's absolutely no time to change everything around that. It's been put to a vote, and even if you _were_ here the results would remain the same: the Warblers have decided to pull out of the competition."

"What?" Kurt demanded.

"Kurt," Blaine said, stepping forward, and Kurt narrowed his eyes as he saw half the boys in the room automatically look to Blaine. "This was a team decision."

"And I just wonder who suggested it," Kurt said acidly, gratified when Blaine frowned, his composure slipping for a moment. But Kurt was _furious_, suddenly; Blaine had done this while he was gone, had made this decision for him, for _all of them_. Thad and John had never once had trouble performing in front of an audience; in fact, Thad was more of an attention whore than _Rachel_, at times. Yet somehow, now, they both come down with overwhelming stage fright? For over a month, Kurt had let Blaine dictate his life – Blaine had had so much to do with the transfer process that he had all but signed Kurt's papers himself. He'd led Kurt along in this strange whirlwind, and Kurt had been content to follow—but _no more_. Kurt took charge back, and turned to Wes.

"Wes, if I may address the Warblers?" When the Asian boy nodded, Kurt stepped up, in front of Blaine – he _had_ to draw eye contact away from the other boy, even though he could _feel_ Blaine simmering behind him. "That is complete and categorical bullshit." The room erupted into whispers and Kurt drew on every memory of Rachel overpowering a room as he shushed them with both hands and attitude.

"When I was with New Directions, we came to sectionals with nothing but a dream of success. We'd had a…tumultuous journey to get there, and at the time we didn't even have our captain with us. We had planned on two songs, both that we'd performed publicly…and both of our competition took the songs _and_ the planned choreography." Kurt fixed each and every boy with a steely glare. He remembered how Blaine would draw them in, and he shut his eyes briefly and just _willed_ them to _listen_. He made as much direct eye contact as he could, surprised and pleased when even Thad and John had leaned in to where he was. "We were crushed. We had next to nothing – but we were a team. We _loved_ glee. And with a few suggestions from our co-captains and about twenty minutes of throwing together some choreography, we _won_."

"But this _isn't_ New Directions," Blaine said calmly, stepping out from behind Kurt. The boys' eyes turned toward him, and Kurt cursed inwardly. "And you _aren't_ with them anymore, Kurt. Are you with us?"

"I'm with the Warblers – and I want a vote," Kurt returned. He turned again and once more trusted to faith, throwing every ounce of passion into his voice and _pushing_ inside of his mind – _believe me_. "We could walk away – we could let this entire year mean _nothing_. Or we can say the _hell_ with that. Each and every one of us knows songs; we don't need one soloist or two to carry a group number. I've got music arrangements on my iPod. I know that we traditionally do just a capella, but come on: can any of you argue with the fact that we have some _amazing_ singers in here? _Trust_ me!" Kurt went on quickly, feeling his words starting to catch on.

"Well, Kurt, I don't think—" Blaine began smoothly.

"Do you think that you could do it?" Wes interrupted. The entire room stopped cold; it was likely the first and only time since his arrival at Dalton Academy that Blaine had been interrupted, let alone disagreed with. Blaine himself was staring at Wes like he had just announced his intention to enter to win a guest spot on _Ru Paul's Drag Race_. Kurt felt his heart leap into his throat as Wes fixed him with a steady stare. "I don't _want_ to walk away from this; I've worked hard as one of the captains of this group to get here. Need I remind any of you that the Warblers did not exist as a true competition show choir until last year? How we felt actually making it to sectionals in the first place?"

"There is a formula we can follow," Kurt agreed quickly, stepping up next to Wes, giving his position strength. "I don't want to cast just myself forward, but I know that New Directions will do one large group number and one performance to spotlight a soloist – most likely Rachel Berry. We could do a solo to lead in to a group number where we all join in – our choreography for 'Hey Soul Sister' from a few months ago would even still apply; it's loose and easy to follow."

"Kurt, this would be you," David said, standing to join his two friends. "We would use the extra time while you were soloing to assign parts in a group number."

"You really want me to lead the solo at sectionals?" Kurt asked, shaking.

"If you can do it," Blaine cut in, mocking Wes' earlier words. His face looked white, furious, and drawn; the other boys weren't really looking at him. Kurt went still and, for the first time since the weirdness between him and Blaine began, he willingly looked Blaine dead in the eye. There was no disorientation, no compelling force behind it. Kurt stood, strong, alone.

"I can," he said flatly. He didn't break eye contact when Thad and John started up a cheer, and Kurt flushed as Blaine broke the look, and his name was being chanted. This was his _moment_, and he knew exactly what he wanted to say.

**888**

_This is utter madness_, Kurt thought, resisting the urge to peak. The other boys were going to watch his performance on the monitors in the back rooms, silently practising their positions and the clapping; they'd settled on a song they all enjoyed that would allow some a capella arrangements along with audience participation if they pulled it off right. But they needed Kurt to begin it. He took a deep breath. The best song performed was one that was _felt_, and Kurt knew this song from backwards to front, remembering that strange, morbid conversation with Rachel one afternoon after their duet where she had reminisced about imagining her own funeral. For the first time, Kurt was beginning to understand why that would appeal to her.

He looked back, where the Warblers were standing, and saw Blaine. Blaine was looking at him oddly. Not with the intensive possession that had marked their interaction last night, but with a strangely fixed expression, like Kurt was doing something that Blaine wanted…but for the life of him Kurt couldn't figure out what was going through the other boy's head. Kurt met his gaze, and Blaine nodded once, solemnly, before turning and walking back to the rest of the team. _Phoenix, huh?_ Kurt thought somewhat defiantly. _Watch me fly_.

Whatever was happening to him, everything was building to a head. Blaine had shown his hand last night, hadn't he? It was time for Kurt to show _his_. This may be the last time he had the chance to do this, to _say_ this to the people that it mattered to most. He peeked out behind the curtain and saw Rachel spot him, nudge Mercedes next to her and Quinn next to her, to Tina and Mike and Puck and Sam and Artie and Finn, even Mr. Schuester and Carole and his _father_. Kurt finally, finally smiled, and offered them a tiny wave before he twitched the curtain back; the opening swell of music had started, and he'd seen Rachel nearly burst into tears when she recognised the song. She would understand, then. Kurt smiled, and channelled the character he'd loved for so long. It was time to say goodbye to his friends, the way he'd never had the chance to.

He lightly drew the curtain back and stepped into his spotlight.

_It won't be easy—you'll think it strange_

_When I try to explain how I feel_

_That I still need your love, after all that I've done_

_You won't believe me_

_All you will see is the boy you once knew—_

_Although he's dressed up to the nines_

_At sixes and sevens with you_

Kurt stepped forward, his posture perfect, his voice flawless; he didn't think he'd ever hit such a pure soprano before in his life, and if now was the time, then so be it. His words were hitting home, and he saw Quinn and Mercedes both crying as they waved for him. They _understood_.

_I had to let it happen—I had to change_

_Couldn't stay all my life down at heel_

_Looking out of the window, staying out of the sun_

_So I chose freedom_

_Running around, trying everything new_

_But nothing impressed me at all_

_I never expected it to_

Mr. Schuester was punching the air, cheering him on, and Kurt remembered every time he'd run to the man with problems he didn't feel like he could tell his father. His father, who was sitting there as well, his face full of pride and love and affection, and Kurt spread his arms wide to embrace not just the audience but the _feeling_.

_Don't cry for me, Argentina:_

_The truth is, I never left you_

_All through my wild days_

_My mad existence_

_I've kept my promise—_

_Don't keep your distance_

Kurt again stepped forward, toward the lip of the stage, standing above his audience, arms raised, looking down upon them – separate but not alien.

_And as for fortune, and as for fame_

_I never invited them in_

_Though it seemed to the world they were all I desired_

_They are illusions—_

_They're not the solutions they promise to be_

_The answer was here all the time_

_I love you, and hope you love me_

He moved, a simple dance, remembering as much of Madonna's stellar performance from the balcony of the Casa Rosada in _Evita_ as he could, gesturing but not too strongly, drawing them in but not driving them away. He strengthened his voice and blasted:

_Don't cry for me, Argentina:_

_The truth is I never left you_

_All through my wild days_

_My mad existence_

_I've kept my promise—_

_Don't keep your distance_

He stopped, took a moment to pause. Then, he turned, faced his audience, and once more lifted his hands.

_Have I said too much?_

_There is nothing more I can think of to say to you_

_But all you have to do_

_Is look at me to know that every word_

_Is true!_

And with that, he sank to his knees and bent forward, giving himself wholly to the audience as he hit that last note, pitch perfect, practically sobbing as the entire audience leapt to their feet, the applause striking him like thunder. It was everything he had ever dreamt of, there, in his hand, and Kurt looked up, grinning like a lunatic, but he saw it reflected on every face of New Directions as they stomped their feet and joined the storm of applause.

The clapping died down as the strumming chords of the next song swelled in, and Wes and David came to join him on stage, Wes leading and David joining in:

_Happiness hit her like a train on a track_

_Coming toward her—stuck, still, no turning back_

When the clapping along began, Rachel and Mercedes were the first to join in, and Kurt grinned fiercely as he saw the audience jump in as the full force of the Warblers' voices lifted together in brutal harmony, and they all danced together, filled with purpose.

_Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back_

_Struck from a great height_

_By someone who should know better than that_

_The dog days are over_

_The dog days are done_

_The horses are coming_

_So you'd better run_

_Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father_

_Run for your children, for your sisters and your brothers_

_Leave all your love and your longing behind_

_You can't carry it with you if you want to survive!_

By the time the song was finished, the entire audience was on its feet, and Kurt felt that in that moment he could have soared into the air.

**888**

Kurt sat with Wes and David during New Directions' performance, cheering loudly at the surprising choice of soloists. Developing appreciation of Rachel notwithstanding, it was wonderful to see Mr. Schuester _finally_ showcasing just how much talent the entire club possessed in spades. Sam and Quinn sounded indescribably sweet together on "Time of My Life" and the oldies hit was a fun group number, but Santana absolutely blew him away with her rendition of "Valerie." Of course, the way her eyes stayed on Brittany's unbelievably good dancing, Kurt didn't have to exactly wonder what was inspiring her. Still, he'd glimpsed her true talent when they'd done their fabulous rendition of "Bad Romance," but that was _nothing_ to now. He joined in the standing ovation with many of the Warblers, proudly.

When they all took the stage, Kurt waved back when the merry Hipsters proudly displayed their second-place trophy. A venerable-looking old woman that vaguely reminded him of Grandma Hummel had gestured him over for congratulations, which Kurt returned enthusiastically. But when the announcer called out the tie win between New Directions and the Warblers, Kurt felt deafened by all of the screaming both onstage and of, screaming which he gladly joined in on. There was no universe where he could have predicted his happiness as both teams converged on him for hugs. Not only had he given the Warblers their first sectionals win, New Directions would go on to regionals, meaning that they wouldn't be arbitrarily cancelled by Figgins. He caught Mr. Schuester's eye, and the teacher pulled him away from his babbling friends for just a moment.

"Kurt, you were…_amazing_, up there," he said warmly. Kurt smiled. "I just wanted to apologise—" Kurt held his hand up to cut him off, and returned the man's warm smile.

"Mr. Schuester, it happened. I think it's worked out pretty well," he said, looking at the intermingling singers. The man himself chuckled as Burt caught up with them, loudly proclaiming a joint family dinner at BreadstiX to congratulate both Finn and Kurt, and the teams cheered loudly. Kurt tugged on his dad's sleeve and suggested that he spend the night in Lima before returning to Dalton Sunday night, and Burt nodded enthusiastically. Finn clapped him on the shoulder roughly and awkwardly, and Kurt rolled his eyes and shoved him back. Mercedes, catching wind, immediately started planning a shopping excursion with him and Tina, and Kurt laughed as he caught Wes attempting to hold a conversation with Brittany and the resulting confusion on his face.

When he excused himself to the bathroom, Kurt wasn't entirely surprised once he'd splashed some water on his face to look up and find Blaine standing behind him. They were alone and the door was closed, but where Kurt had felt nervous and trapped in the common room last night, now he felt calm. Whatever was going on between him and Blaine, he'd discovered today that he still had it in himself to resist it, and with spectacular results. Kurt dried his face and turned around to regard the other boy evenly.

"You can't go back to Lima," Blaine said finally.

"I beg your pardon?" Kurt returned calmly. He wasn't angry, though; Blaine reacted to that, rather like a shark, in their conversations together. Instead, he remained calm.

"Stay with me," Blaine said. It wasn't a suggestion.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Blaine, you don't control my life. You don't control _me_," Kurt replied, calmly tossing his paper towel in the trash can. "I'm going to spend the weekend with my friends and my family." He turned around, giving Blaine his back, and headed toward the door.

"_No_," Blaine snarled roughly, and then he was suddenly shoving the door closed again, trapping Kurt between his body and the way outside. "Kurt, you need to understand—"

"Yes, actually, I _do_," Kurt said calmly. "I've seen things, in you, in me – _impossible_ things. And it really occurs to me: I don't even know who you _are_!" He stepped forward, and Blaine slowly stepped back, clearing space between them. "Give me one good reason why I should trust you, Blaine – just one. Why are you so different to me at times? How do you always know what I'm thinking? How do you control everyone and everything around you, all the time – why _me_?"

"You're not ready," Blaine said inexplicably, stepping back. "But you will be. You'll understand, Kurt: _you belong to me_."

"Good-bye, Blaine," Kurt said flatly.

This time, when he walked out the door, Blaine didn't try to stop him.

**888**

Dinner at BreadstiX was indescribably fun. Kurt, Burt, Carole, and Finn were joined by Quinn, Mercedes, and Luke and his parents. From the way that Luke was staring at Mercedes, Kurt didn't exactly need three guesses why Luke had chosen to stay in Lima for the night. Mercedes was blushing furiously every time she caught him staring, and she was playing a furious game of footsie with Kurt under the table by way of communication every time he encouraged her with his eyes to talk to Luke.

The conversation flowed between football, glee club, academics in general, and Sue's creation of an insanely elite squad of students called "The Bully Whips," who were rewarded for stopping incidents of bullying between students. Kurt was shocked to hear that Santana had become a member ("It was after she saw Brittany get slushied, before they removed the machine," Mercedes explained, which cleared things up, though, of course, Finn just looked more confused at that rather than less). Kurt and Luke explained the somewhat insane educational standards of Dalton, and Mercedes complained that her AP English class had become insanely boring since Kurt had gone and no one was there to skewer poor Mr. Lewis' choice of bad poetry for subject matter.

The adults were talking about Dalton's no-bullying policy, and as Luke's father was a graduate from the institution, he was expounding at length to Burt and to Mercedes' parents about the school's history as being one of the first private institutions in the area to not only allow, but encourage black students to join when separate-but-equal was being fought over in the courts. Mercedes rolled her eyes at her father and went back to teasing Quinn about how Puck was dancing around her like a performing puppy – he'd even joined the Bully Whips in an attempt to impress her, which backfired badly when he was promptly expelled from the group after being caught using a fire extinguisher to 'teach Azimio a lesson.' Quinn blushed and rolled _her_ eyes and instead changed the subject to mutual admiration of their songs of the night. (Kurt proudly showed them the text message Rachel had sent him, it was so long it had to be split into three different missives, which critiqued his performance and gave him four stars out of five. (As Rachel was the only recipient of a Rachel Berry Five Star rating, this was big news.)).

Mercedes had complained about Kurt not going to _Burlesque_ opening night with her, but instead making her wait to go with him till a week later, and Kurt countered by offering to help her recreate Christina Aguilera's incredible dress from the "Bound to You" number in time for Prom. Unsurprisingly, Mercedes folded, and Quinn shook her head fondly. By the time they were all leaving, Luke had worked up the nerve to talk to Mercedes directly – though they were both so nervous the conversation mainly centred around mutual awe of the never-ending breadsticks from which the restaurant derived the name. Quinn and Kurt found themselves sharing exasperatedly fond expressions with Luke's parents, and Kurt kindly intervened by confiscating both blushing teenagers' phones and programming them with each others' numbers. Mercedes promised murder, though she looked grateful, and Luke shot Kurt two thumbs up.

Finn and Carole were staying the night at the Hummel house, and, to his immense surprise, Kurt found himself screaming with Finn at the television screen as Finn attempted to teach Kurt the simple combinations for an _X-Men_ fighting game when Kurt had expressed a slight interest in the films. To both of their surprise, Kurt had developed a streak of aptitude for the game and ended up trouncing Finn repeatedly. Carole had finally intervened and they all had family desert together as Carole proudly showed off the ice-cream maker she and Burt had invested in. "Since you can use all of your own ingredients, you see, we get to use non-fat milk and cut back on cholesterol…" she rhapsodised, while Burt and Finn made faces behind her back and Finn and Kurt ended up throwing marshmallows at each other.

It was the happiest night at home that Kurt had had, ever since his mother had died, and for reasons he couldn't fully articulate, he felt like sobbing his eyes out. This was simple _life_, with no complications or annoyances. Maybe Burt would even go ahead and propose to Carole – wouldn't that be something? Kurt slipped quietly away and headed down to his room. It had been completely untouched, as Burt had promised – when Finn stayed over, he tended to stay on the couch upstairs. Kurt glanced around him, at the pristine white walls and cold colours.

He remembered how alone he'd felt down here, surrounding himself with icy images of perfection, planning his escape from Lima. He was beginning to realise that no matter where you went, you took your home with you. He didn't want to stay in Lima, but he didn't entirely hate it as much as he'd thought. Perspective was a funny thing.

Kurt wandered through the room, examining memories and dreams, before he went to the bathroom and sighed with a twist of the lips when he saw the two prescription bottles he'd promised Dr. Shane he would restart and then promptly left them behind upon his transfer to Dalton. Running away from dealing with the problem: wasn't that what was getting him into trouble in the first place? Kurt fingered the bottles and thought of that awful, long-ago night when he had been trapped down here, the voice in his head coalescing into a nightmarish phantom, escaping into the shower…

He'd been haunted for so long, he barely remembered what a night like tonight was _like_, and it wasn't something that he liked to admit to himself. Blaine terrified him; there was the intimate, beautiful Blaine, the boy who Kurt had fell totally in love with from the start, and then there was the _other_ Blaine, who reminded him so much of the nightmares in his childhood that he had tried for so long to leave behind. For the first time, Kurt was beginning to accept that something utterly impossible was happening to him, though everything in him prompted him to fight against it. Kurt believed in logic, rational, reasonable thinking. But as Sherlock Holmes once so wisely stated, "When one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth."

Kurt left the room behind and slipped quietly into his parents' room, listening for signs of the others downstairs. When he didn't hear anything, he went to the dresser of his mother's, that his father had never gotten rid of, opened the top drawer, and wound up her music box. When the tinkling strains of "My Favourite Things" began, Kurt slowly opened the box and looked inside at the sparkling phoenix necklace, wishing with a sudden, impossible clarity that his mother was still here, with him, to hold him and tell him what to do.

"You look so much like her," Burt said from the doorway, and Kurt spun around with wide eyes. Burt chuckled and moved into the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Your mother came into my life like a faerie tale. I've never met anyone like her, except maybe you. You have her eyes, and her hair, and her skin. But you're my son." His eyes were faraway and Kurt slowly sat down next to him, resting his head on his father's shoulder, sighing when Burt wrapped an arm around him.

"Tell me about her, Daddy."

"Elizabeth was beautiful, inside and out," Burt said simply. "She was like an animal whisperer; they all loved her. And she kept a garden that just would not stop growing, even when we couldn't possibly eat everything she was growing – she'd just give it to the neighbours. And she _loved_ you, Kurt; oh, god, did she love you."

"She wouldn't have run away from a problem, would she?" Kurt asked slowly.

"No, she wouldn't have," Burt replied softly. "She would have done what she thought was best, right here," he tapped Kurt's chest softly, where his heart was. "I miss her so much, Kurt, but I never, ever regretted knowing her – especially because she gave me you."

"I love you too, Dad," Kurt said, hugging his dad back, before he stood up decisively. He closed the box. "Tomorrow, I'm going to Dr. Shane's. I think that I'm really ready to talk to her again."

"That's probably a good idea," Burt agreed.

"And, Dad? Mom would've really liked Carole," Kurt said, smirking impishly. Burt shot him a distinctly unimpressed look as Kurt started snickering, but Burt reluctantly joined in as well.

"Yeah, I think she would have," he said. Then he stood up, and pressed the box into Kurt's hand. "Elizabeth had this when I met her – she always had it. I think she meant to give it to you. You should keep it."

Kurt nodded, and hugged his father goodnight before he headed to bed.

**888**

—_Amelia ran and ran and ran through the woods that had been her home, hearing _him_ gathering like a storm behind her. There was no way that she could outrun him for long; all she could pray for was that her last, most desperate plan would work, or the evil that she had unleashed into the world would never end, never fail, never go away until he had achieved what he wanted._

_She ran and ran, until she reached the cliff at the top of the hill a mile from the home she had made herself, planning foolish, girlish plots of revenge: a revenge that had shamed her mother's spirit. Amelia could only pray that she would be put to rest once this was over…_

"_Amelia," the thing whispered into her mind, catching up with her. She trembled—she was so _young_; she did not want to pay for her mistakes! But such childishness was behind her now. There was only one way to break the contract; only one way to ensure that he would never get what he wanted. She whispered a goodbye to the life that she had lived and loved so much, and threw herself off the cliff, tumbling into the air, hearing him scream above her…it took so long to crash into the rocks below, and then she knew nothing at all._—

Kurt managed to shrug off going shopping with the girls by setting up a morning coffee date instead. He and Quinn teased Mercedes mercilessly, until she turned the tables by interrogating Quinn about Puck. Kurt grinned as he watched it all, feeling slightly separate from them. He finished it off, though, and broke off from them. Perhaps he hadn't been as cannily cagey as he'd thought, though, because Quinn had pulled him in for a quick hug and a whispered, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Kurt nodded and gave her an easy smile, which she returned hesitantly before going to join Mercedes to pick up a waiting Tina. Kurt promised later outfit critique via Facebook before he headed back to his car. Taking a deep breath and releasing it, he sighed, switched his phone off, and pulled back onto the road. Within ten minutes he was parking next to the soft white exterior of the Old Oak Resting Home. He parked his car on the far end of the small parking lot and locked it, surveying the place with a touch of unease. Lima's resident asylum; it had been set up back when psychiatric wards weren't part of general hospitals. Dr. Shane ran her practise from the office suites at the front while overseeing the patients who lived in the rooms in the rear. Kurt had once been one of them, for all of two weeks. He'd never set foot in the rear rooms since, in the sporadic visits he'd been forced to make to Dr. Shane.

Did he really want to do this? Resoundingly, no – but he couldn't keep running away from this. If he was really on the edge of a complete breakdown, seeing visions and hearing voices, then he had to overcome his fear of mental institutions long enough to take the necessary steps to stop it. And if they could find nothing wrong with him, then… Kurt would cross that bridge when he came to it. But he couldn't afford to stand passively back while his life passed him by any longer.

Nodding, Kurt headed into the front door, where, unsurprisingly, Dr. Shane herself was waiting for him. He'd called her early that morning to announce his visit and his possible overnight stay; she'd assured him that she had cleared her schedule for him. That was one thing – it was impossible to _hate_ her. The woman was remarkably good at her job, and she really did bend over backward for her patients. Maybe it really was just Kurt's general distrust of doctors who tried to examine his inner self that projected dislike onto her. After all, she'd certainly seen right through him on many occasions before.

"Hello, Kurt," she said warmly, greeting him with open arms. He smiled vaguely as he filled out the required forms – his father's signature wasn't necessary, as he'd already signed Dr. Shane as Kurt's primary mental caretaker years before. When all the logistics were complete, she led him to her office. He vividly remembered the place, and it wasn't changed much from what he remembered. She had the couch for her patients, but also chairs in front of her desk; shelves upon shelves of books; walls were a calm blue like the sea on a beautiful day; she had model boats in glass bottles and dolphins and mermaids adorning shelves and wall art, including one picture of a shirtless mermaid that had made Kurt blush when he was a small boy. Apparently, some British sidewalk artist had drawn it for her years before and she'd never gotten rid of it.

Dr. Shane waited patiently for Kurt to sit down, to relax, and to take a drink of the water she offered him: he was stalling, and they both knew it. Kurt, annoyed to be falling right back into old patterns, settled himself back in and drew himself up to meet her gaze head-on. "Was Karofsky happy when he left here that afternoon after he wrote the letter?" he asked, and she winced. "I know that you can't break confidentiality and all that, but, just, tell me: was he happy?"

"He seemed at peace," Dr. Shane answered slowly, thinking her words over carefully. "Kurt, there are times when someone – particularly an emotionally volatile teenager – takes their own life and there doesn't appear to be an explanation. You mustn't blame yourself for this at all. Humans aren't infallible beings—far from that—and not every suicide leaves warning signs leading up to their final decision."

Kurt nodded, something falling into place in his mind. It was time – had been time, for a short while. "I need to know if I'm going crazy," he finally settled on. "And I don't mean in some pedestrian way – I need to know if I'm really, legitimately losing it."

"What I asked you at the hospital that day," Dr. Shane began, and Kurt nodded.

"I've been seeing things again – but I didn't tell you all of it," Kurt confirmed. "I think that I'm really ready now."

"Whatever you choose to tell me, Kurt," she nodded, and sat back. Kurt thought long and hard about this. Where to start? It couldn't start with Karofsky, because if he were being truly honest with himself, this had begun so long before that…

"The dreams were always the same, ever since I was a little boy," he began. "I don't actually remember when the first one began. I just know that it was after my mother died. There are still parts of that year that I don't really remember, actually. I'd always had vivid dreams; my mother would tell me stories to distract me from them. She told me that if you tried to live in dreams, then you could never really leave. I tried to ignore the dreams at first, but they scared me so much—the girl in the red cloak, the patches of snow on the ground, the blood in the snow. I told you about watching her mother die when I was little, remember?" Dr. Shane nodded slowly, her face expressionless, and Kurt took that as his sign to continue.

"I would see bits and pieces of that, like a film that you walk into halfway through. But no matter how far into that I saw, it always ended the same: running, always _running_ from the wind behind her. And when the wind reaches her, she denies it what it wants and throws herself off the cliff instead. And then the wind turns to me, and I am trapped in darkness with this man…this, this _thing_. That was the sleepwalking, you see; I was trying to escape."

"Leomaris," Dr. Shane continued for him, and Kurt nodded grimly, his eyes faraway, fixed on a little boy and the shadowy man who was with him, always with him.

"I had to look that name up when I got older," Kurt continued. "It means 'king of the sea,' or 'lion of the sea.' It's Latin. I never knew Latin, and I still don't. That's what always confused my dad, I think, that name."

"You weren't the only one who had to look it up," Dr. Shane cut in with a gentle smile and Kurt smirked with a small huff of laughter and a nod.

"I saw Leomaris for _forever_ before I told my dad, and he freaked out," Kurt went on. "That's what I didn't tell you. My father was always trying to get me out of trouble at school. I don't remember doing these things. Maybe my mind was trying to blame someone? But I remember Leomaris being mean to people who were mean to me. He followed me everywhere; he wanted every piece of my time. I always saw him as so much larger than me, and powerful – but really he was like a child, I think. Scared to be ignored, if that makes sense."

"So why didn't you tell me this when we first met?" Dr. Shane asked.

"You were saying things at the time to my dad when you thought I wasn't listening," Kurt replied. "You said you'd never seen an imaginary friend developed this way, that it was troubling and that it was a bad thing. It scared me – _he_ scared me. He always knew what I was thinking, and he could _do_ things, make me think that _I_ could do things, that were impossible."

"Like what?"

"Like moving things that couldn't be moved," Kurt elucidated. "Knowing things before someone said them, or before they happened. I didn't think to connect him with the thing that killed all of those people in my dreams until one day, when I was playing on the playground. This boy didn't like me – he thought I was too girly, most likely. Anyway, he was picking on me, and I saw Leomaris, so I got scared. He hated people that were mean to me, and I was already scared of him at that point. So I felt this…horror, like I can't describe: like I was possessed. My body was doing things that I didn't tell it to, and I moved the other boy away from me the way that Leomaris would move things. And I felt _him_, in my _head_, getting stronger like he was taking something from me into himself.

"That day, he became solid – I could _touch_ him, for that split second. And it _terrified_ me, because he hadn't done that before. So I told my dad about Leomaris, and my dad ended up taking me to you."

"Well, I was certainly concerned that you were blaming an invisible spirit for putting another boy in the hospital," Dr. Shane said wryly. "But you weren't talking to me very much at first for other reasons, I think." Kurt nodded at this.

"My mother _hated_ you – people like you. She said that no one could ever know a man's soul, especially not through books or schooling." Kurt smiled fondly, and continued. "My mother could see things before they happened. She knew lies from truth, always. And she was the first person other than me who ever _saw_ _him_. I used to believe in magic, in god—gods—whatever, but after she died…"

"You saw Leomaris before her death?" Dr. Shane asked, surprised.

"Sometimes," Kurt nodded. "Not like I would later – my mother didn't like him. When she tucked me in at night, she said she'd make him stay away from me… Actually, I think that _she_ saw him before _I_ did, that first time. We were in a park, and she stopped, and stared at something or someone, and that's when I saw him."

"I see," Dr. Shane said slowly. "Kurt, I want you to tell me the things you told me about the last few months – everything."

Kurt sighed, and nodded, and started at the beginning. Every single vision, every dream, every piece of Leomaris resurfacing that he had refused to believe, every time he had imagined Leomaris' eyes in Blaine and then run from it; he detailed the confrontation in the locker room and then on the stairs, how he'd felt that possession from his childhood enter him then and fought against it and how it hadn't seemed to matter. He told her about Blaine's split-personality, the way that he had dubbed it in his head. And the more he talked, the more every piece of the labyrinthine puzzle he had found himself in fit into place – Blaine's mannerisms, his strange way of speaking, his eyes, his… How long had Kurt been comparing Blaine to Leomaris without admitting it to himself?

By the time he'd concluded the story with sectionals, Dr. Shane was looking remarkably grave. "So, a diagnosis? Schizophrenia or psychosis?" Kurt joked weakly.

"Kurt, you've been under a terrible amount of stress this year," she said slowly. "But that is absolutely no excuse for you to be experiencing such realistic delusions, not at this point in your life. And while I agree that your…relationship, of whatever kind, with this Mr. Anderson appears to be somewhat unhealthy, I think that you and I both know that the root of your problem is nowhere near him. When you first came to me as a child, I'd actually begun to hypothesise that Leomaris was in fact a real person or adult in your life that you had developed into some fantastically powerful ghost in order to protect your subconscious—"

"Why the hell would my subconscious turn a real-life attacker into a supernaturally powerful one for _protection_? Wouldn't that just make me _more_ terrified?" Kurt cut in.

"No, Kurt – because you need to be angry; you keep your thoughts and everything important about you locked so far inside of you that if you thought this threatening man, whoever he was or is, was some kind of ghost trying to penetrate that part of you, that would make you angry enough to fight back. But that's neither here nor there, as I think that we can both safely say that this spirit is not one of flesh and blood."

"He _wants_ to be, though," Kurt said softly, and Dr. Shane looked at him. "Ultimately, I think. He wants to be human."

"Kurt…any delusion wants to be acknowledged as real," she said slowly.

"You think that I'm schizophrenic," Kurt returned flatly.

"I think that there is a very real possibility, yes," Dr. Shane replied bluntly, refusing to pull her punches. Funnily enough, that used to be something that Kurt appreciated about her. "A mild form, certainly, but visual and auditory hallucinations are nothing to be taken lightly. And there's a variety of treatments. That you treat these…events or occurrences as so potently unbelievable is a good sign that you aren't lost to them. But either way, I'd like you to stay at least the night here for further observation. I'm going to have to start you on a new medication regimen."

"Of course," Kurt said vaguely. He wasn't bothered. Leomaris hated mental hospitals; he wouldn't come here. When Kurt could accept that fact, then he could accept that he didn't believe Dr. Shane.

What then was the truth?

**888**

Kurt's room was similar enough to the one he stayed in as a child that he felt a little nauseous. It made his skin crawl to feel like he was right back where he was when he started middle school, coming in and out of the psych ward and making him even freakier to his peers than he already was. Kurt emerged from the bathroom changed into the soft, plain white cotton of the pyjama-like t-shirt and pants of what patients were allowed in their room, though his things were in a bag in the corner; as a voluntarily committed patient only there potentially for an overnight, Kurt wasn't being kept as a prisoner. Dr. Shane hated that term, naturally.

He settled on his bed and glanced out the window, frowning when the dark, bruise-like clouds outside seemed to match his mood. The first fat drop of rain struck the window like the fist of an angry god. The thunder rolled, the lightning struck, and down came the rain. Kurt didn't much appreciate the metaphor in his life and he turned away from the storm, trying not to think about the bars separating him from the glass. They were there for safety for suicide risks, or for those who wanted to escape but shouldn't. They weren't there for people like him…

Except, Dr. Shane seemed to think they were. Kurt didn't really know what he believed anymore.

The clock on the wall abruptly stopped ticking. Kurt frowned and shifted on the bed, kneeling up to look. The thing looked just the same as always. He shrugged after a moment – the battery was probably dead. Flopping back on his pillow, Kurt wondered if he should contemplate sleeping when he heard a small _click_. The sound continued, and Kurt, bewildered, sat straight up in bed and stared at the door as he finally located the sound coming from the…_door?_

There was a final, fatal _click_, and the door swung open to complete silence on the outside; in fact, Kurt noted worryingly, there was almost no sound except for the rain. Then someone stepped into the room, and Kurt froze. Blaine Anderson looked at the door, looking stupidly pleased with himself, before he turned around and fixed Kurt with a bright smile. Kurt could have sobbed; it was _Blaine_, stupid curly hair and unguarded smile and all. Before he could so much as move, Blaine had surged across the room and caught Kurt in a fierce hug, crushing them chest to chest.

Kurt pulled back, though – he _had_ to pull back. "Blaine?" he whispered. "Tell me the truth." He fixed the other boy with a hard stare, putting space between them. "Are you Blaine?"

"Yes!" Blaine exclaimed loudly, then, seeming to check himself, lowered his voice. "Yes, Kurt, yeah – it's really me. I've been wanting to tell you—" Kurt held a hand up, stopping him, and Blaine worriedly stepped backward.

"You're really telling me that all those nights I thought you were a completely different person…you _were_." Kurt didn't really phrase it as a question. Blaine's face was full of inescapable pity, and Kurt felt bile rise in the back of his throat. If there was one thing that he couldn't abide, it was _pity_, and certainly not from _Blaine_ of all people.

"Kurt, I wanted…I _couldn't_ tell you, at first," Blaine whispered. "You wouldn't have believed me."

"I'm listening now," Kurt whispered, drawing his knees up defensively. Blaine winced and moved, sitting cross-legged across from Kurt at the end of the bed. Their eyes locked, but it was a completely different warmth that shot through Kurt at this tension between them. Blaine's eyes were a warm chocolate brown, honest and pure, every emotion he had displayed on his face for the world to see and to tear apart. Kurt _trusted_ him, and not because of some projected _feeling_ in his mind. He just intrinsically knew – had known, from that first night alone in his house, that Blaine was someone he could trust.

"What do you want me to say?" Blaine asked finally. Kurt snorted inelegantly.

"Try the truth?" he asked sarcastically. Blaine's lips quirked in a fought-back smile, and Kurt sniffed back more tears, moving to copy Blaine's position on the bed.

"Kurt, I don't even know how to say this…"

"Blaine, there is literally nothing that you could tell me right now that I would call you crazy for not having thought of it myself," Kurt assured him sardonically, and Blaine nodded.

"It's just that…I've wanted to tell someone for so long, but I knew that they would think that I was completely insane, and then _it_ would happen, and it would be for nothing anyway. But then I met you, and I knew that you were _like_ me – but that's the problem, isn't it?" Blaine shook his head, and Kurt frowned. If Blaine wasn't going to make any sense…

"Kurt, the first time that we met, that day at Dalton, when you were so scared…" Blaine sniffed, drew himself together, and looked Kurt dead-on. "That wasn't me. His name is Leomaris."

Kurt felt his entire body stiffen with tension, and then release like poison from a wound. There was absolutely no way that Blaine should know that name. Kurt had never said it around a soul besides his father and Dr. Shane, and neither of them had ever met Blaine. "I know," he whispered, his voice hoarse, scraped raw. Blaine's features twisted into a terrible, brittle mask of sorrow, and he bowed his head. "How…?" Could Kurt even shape the question? He didn't really have to though. Blaine reached across the bed and took Kurt's hand, and slowly took it in his. That was when Kurt noticed – Blaine was wearing a t-shirt. Blaine _always_ wore some kind of long sleeves…

Blaine took Kurt's fingers and traced them delicately over the harsh, ropy scar tissue on one of his wrists, and Kurt gasped, his eyes tearing up as he lightly caressed the old wound. He didn't need to see the matching slash on Blaine's other wrist to guess the rest. "I didn't come out at my old school. I was picked on because I was the smaller kid who played with the girls and liked show-tunes, but I was really good at not being noticed. I liked football well enough, so the other boys let me alone for the most part.

"I had always been _weird_, though. I knew things, sometimes, that I shouldn't have known but I just _did_, and every once in a while weird things would happen around me, usually when I was really freaked out," Blaine continued, and Kurt felt the echoes of his own childhood down to his bones. "It was enough to not give me many friends – jeeze, I remember the time that I was on a camping trip my school had set up, and I'd gone out with a teacher to help get some firewood for the second night. I answered a question about the woods around us, and it wasn't really until he was looking at me like I'd just got out of the carnival that I realised he'd never asked the question out loud."

"Weird things," Kurt echoed slowly. "Like what?"

"Like that door," Blaine said, nodding towards it. "I guess the term is telekinetic, but it's not like some stupid movie where I can shoot people all over the place, you know. It's half worthless – that was the first time I ever pushed a door, you know? I can move little things and stop clocks; actually, electricity doesn't like me all that much."

"Show me," Kurt challenged. He didn't know why he was trying to remain sceptical about Blaine's words; he'd accepted so much else, like Leomaris himself – hell, why _not_ this? Blaine snorted and gestured for Kurt's pillow. Kurt raised his eyebrow but he gave it to him. It was a thin little hospital thing. Blaine held it up and frowned at it. For a long moment, Kurt's doubts began to gnaw at him again; this was likely the most ridiculous position he'd ever found himself in.

The pillow moved.

Kurt yelped and jerked back, his heart pounding. Blaine dropped his hands and the pillow just…_stayed_. Blaine shook a little after a moment, and the pillow twitched, shook, and fell back to the bed. Silence ruled the room for a long minute as Kurt stared at the pillow, his eyes wider than a fish, before he gaped at Blaine. Blaine shrugged, red-faced, and looked away. "See? It's just a little parlour trick, you know. Stupid – nothing like you."

"What the hell do you mean, _nothing like me_?" Kurt demanded. "I think that I'd know if I could do something like that!"

"You could do a lot more than _that_," Blaine said grimly, and Kurt slumped back, shaking his head; catching this, Blaine frowned. "How do you _think_ Karofsky broke his arm that day? How you threw _him_…_me_ back, the other night?"

"Just…keep telling your story, alright?" Kurt snapped, his fists clenched. Blaine had _no idea_ what he was talking about, and… _He just moved something with his mind._ Kurt tried very hard to stop his hands from shaking as Blaine looked away, nervously picking at his jeans with a hand.

"Well, anyway, things were going pretty normal for me, other than being gay," Blaine continued. Something bitter and hard passed behind his face, and Kurt could practically hear the words behind _that_ look. "It was a small town in South Carolina," Blaine said, producing a trace of a Southern drawl that for reasons unknown to god and man Kurt found indescribably sexy. "I already knew that I couldn't be a _faggot_. I didn't tell _anyone_. And I guess it could've stayed that way, until… Until I started to hear _him_."

They were both leaning in, a private bubble between them and the rest of the world – the only two people in the world who could possibly understand the other's position. "It started small, at first – a voice, who would whisper my own secrets to me. I thought that I was just going crazy, but then it got to be more. I started to see him, following me, watching me everywhere. Things would start to just go _wrong_ around me, and people were starting to _notice_ me more and more, and that was the last thing I wanted was to be _noticed_. And then one stupid day in gym class, this boy that I had this ridiculous crush on, Troy McMichael, he noticed me staring at him. That was the beginning of the end."

"You thought that he wasn't a jerk…" Kurt began for him, his heart aching, and Blaine nodded, his eyes tearing up, refusing to look directly at Kurt.

"I did. And he turned out to be so much worse. I got shoved around, and insulted. My things were stolen. Anything I liked at that school, it got vandalised. They would bother me at lunch, so that I couldn't eat. They made sure that _everyone_ in that school knew just what I was. And the whole time, I could hear that voice, getting stronger and stronger the more I listened to it. The more I would see _him_. My parents were fighting because the school had to call them when I tried complaining to the faculty about it. After my father found out _why_ I was getting picked on, he freaked out. My mom was better about it, but…

"Anyway. It just kept getting worse and worse, until one week it just…stopped. The voice in my head was _gone_, and people were leaving me alone. I thought that it was a miracle, that one of my prayers had finally been answered, maybe. The choir that I stopped going to when people stopped talking to me invited me to go with them to the winter formal. I thought that it was too good to be true, and it was. When I got there, they all went in. The jocks and Troy and his girlfriend held me back because faggots weren't allowed in the gym with normal kids. They took me outside where the teachers weren't, and he kissed her in front of me and told me that I was a filthy, disgusting faggot and that he was going to make sure I made it to hell that night."

Kurt's mouth hung open, bile rising in his throat as Blaine clenched his fists and continued tonelessly. "They beat me bad. I was on the ground already, and I was scared, and hurt, and then Troy came up to give me a good kick, make sure I stayed down. I did the only thing I could think to do – I _pushed_ him, the only way I knew how. He went down, and since nobody saw me touch him, they all freaked out long enough for me to get away. But they reported it to the teachers. They all blamed me, and the teachers believed them. They called my parents and told them that I would be suspended. That night, the voice came back, and he…I _saw him_, really, the whole way, for the first time. He held me in his arms in the bathroom when I took the razor to my wrists."

"_When_?" Kurt demanded, something horrible fermenting in his stomach, a thought in the back of his head he didn't want to voice. Blaine looked at him oddly.

"About three years ago, now, I suppose?" he said slowly.

Kurt bolted up from the bed and dove into the bathroom, collapsing to his knees in front of the toilet and violently throwing up everything in his stomach. He was vaguely aware of Blaine behind him, touching his back, trying to calm him down through the dry heaves, the choking. But Kurt couldn't void the knowledge from his mind as much as he would have loved to try. Three years ago, Dr. Shane had finally struck on the right dosage of medication that, combined with Kurt's newfound love of numbness, stopped him from seeing Leomaris, until he had joined New Directions and for that last year hadn't taken pills at all. He hadn't had one vision, one _incident_ in all that time…because Blaine's life was being destroyed at the time. This was _his fault_.

"No, Kurt, no," Blaine whispered. "He would have found me anyway."

"Get out of my head," Kurt protested weakly, resting his sweating forehead on the cold porcelain of the toilet. Blaine chuckled fondly and helped Kurt to his shaking knees, to the sink where he could wash his face and brush his teeth. Kurt went through three cups of mouthwash to get the disgusting taste of vomit out of his mouth. Blaine held his hand through it, quiet and soothing but _there_. This time, Kurt followed Blaine to the bed, and they sat down together, side to side, not looking at each other but touching.

"When it first happened, I caught glimpses of others he's done this to. I saw the nightmares that you were having in our room," Blaine continued softly, as if there'd been no interruption, no waves of guilt rolling off of Kurt. "It all started with her – but even _I_ don't know _that_ entire story. But I know that I died, or enough of me did, that he could bind his spirit to mine. That was how he started possessing me. When the veil between life and death is weak enough, he can come in, and then once he's in, you don't have any defences against him.

"My parents thought that it was just the trauma affecting my new attitude; when the story of my attempted suicide hit the rest of the town one of the girls watching the attack that night freaked out and told my parents and the teachers what really happened. My mom sued the school and had Troy expelled, which really didn't win our family any favours – he was the star quarterback, and she lost him his football scholarship for the town faggot. But _he_ already had a solution to this: Dalton Academy, with their prestige and power and, of course most importantly, their no-tolerance bullying policy. My parents transferred their jobs and I transferred schools.

"I could see and hear, but I couldn't act – it was horrible, like being imprisoned in your mind. He made friends, influenced people. He's so _powerful_; he had everyone in that school eating out of his hand before a week was gone. He and my father became the best of friends, of course, the perfect family for the perfect boy. But all that time, he was just biding his time, until _you_ came to Dalton Academy. I could see it in his head then: you would find me attractive, and I would be gay with a story just like yours, and a singing voice to match yours. You wouldn't have any defences, because he had already gotten rid of them all. We met, you invited me and thus him into your life, and the rest is history."

The most ridiculous thing about it all was that _Blaine_ looked _guilty_, like this was all somehow _his_ fault. Kurt could have screamed, his skin was crawling so wretchedly. "But…how did I meet you, then?" he finally arrived on, trying to sort through the tornado that was his thoughts.

"He's never possessed someone like this for so long, being corporeal, in a sense. He's a spirit, as far as I can tell, and he's never concentrated like this for so long before. It's draining. He can feed energy off of people – off of the people like us that he kills. He thought that he would be strong enough, but he wasn't. The times he has to let go of me, I go to sleep – like a coma. Then when I wake up he's back, and I never had a chance to do anything…until _you_ called." Blaine was looking at him now like Kurt was the answer to all of his prayers, and Kurt felt so overwhelmed with inadequacy at that look, he didn't even know what to say. "That night, I _woke up_, in my own skin, for the first time in such a long time that I didn't even know what to do. But I just knew that I _had_ to pick up that phone call – and it was you.

"I hated him talking to you, that day; I could see so much between us, and I knew what he was going to do to you. All I wanted to do was tell you that it was going to be okay, and that was my chance. I just didn't count on having that chance. I didn't sleep that whole night, and when he took me back that morning he was _furious_ – but you were fighting him, even back then; he had to expend so much energy the day that you were expelled that I just had to find a way to wake myself up when he would leave me. Some days when you refused to let him in, he would spend so much energy influencing everyone around you to try to get into your head that I wouldn't even fall asleep in the first place; I would just wake up and be _back_."

Kurt nodded. It was all falling into place, in a sick sort of way. But it still left one thing. "Why me? Why has it always been me?"

"He calls us witches, and so do some people," Blaine said softly. "Others call us psychic or gifted or freaks. I don't know what we are or how, but people like you and me can _do_ things. And you, Kurt – you shine like a _sun_ compared to the rest of us." Kurt was shaking his head, and Blaine surged forward. "I've seen him watching you, Kurt. You can completely resist his influence; _you_ can influence people as well. That's what scared him so much at sectionals; he didn't think that anyone other than him could do that. You're strong enough to move things with your mind that would knock me unconscious if I really tried. You can make things grow or die in the earth; he watched you do it with your mother when you were a child. Sometimes even the _weather_ reacts to you – you change the _air_ around you, Kurt, and _that's_ why he wants you!"

"What the hell—the weather?" Kurt asked weakly.

"It wasn't supposed to rain today," Blaine noted. "Whenever you're really sad, it always seems to rain."

"Being sad when it rains isn't completely uncommon!" Kurt protested weakly.

"No, Kurt – it rains _because_ you're sad," Blaine said quietly, and Kurt just _stared_. Every class that had ever come to him natural as breathing, because he'd just seemed to _know_ what the teacher was going to say. Every time he'd wake up after a bad nightmare to see his room torn apart and thought that it was part of the sleepwalking. Every strange memory of his mother that had never made sense in the light of day…dear _god_, was Kurt actually going to _believe_ this?

"Let me _show_ you, then?" Blaine asked, and Kurt nodded dumbly. Blaine leaned forward, taking both of Kurt's hands in his, and Kurt gasped as he felt something crackle between them like energy – like _aura_. Kurt had _seen_ this, those times when he zoned out and the world around him seemed to shift like a molecular rubics cube. _Let me in_, Blaine whispered in Kurt's mind, and Kurt finally just relaxed, defeated. Blaine moved his hands and gently placed them on Kurt's cheeks, cradling his head, and _pushed_ into Kurt's mind. It was so alien, so foreign, that Kurt recoiled, yet Blaine persisted.

It was the most intense, private thing that Kurt had ever felt – this was _Blaine_, the very _feeling_ of him deep inside of his mind, the _taste_ of him; Blaine was showing Kurt into the deepest parts of his _soul_ and it was terrifying and yet exhilarating at the same time. Then, Blaine was delving into _Kurt_, into that icy maelstrom where Kurt hid his deepest self, and Kurt gasped as something glowing and practically orgasmic surged through him and he opened his eyes to see Blaine's pupils dilated strangely, his breathing uneven, but a wondrous smile on his face as he whispered into Kurt's mind, _Look_.

Every piece of furniture in the room – everything bolted down, even – was hovering in the air, including the bed that they were on. Kurt felt the strain in his mind, like using a muscle rarely exercised but _there_, and experimentally he _pushed_, just a little, and watched as the chair began to twirl lazily in the air. The water in the cup next to his bed formed a lazy current, droplets of it separating like molecules returning to simple state, lifting from the glass; the lamps in the room began to flicker and the hands on the clock twitched back and forth lazily.

It was easy, it was _glorious_; the world around him was moving at his command and…and…

Another memory – a boy, alone, powerful, standing above David Karofsky screaming in agony on the stairs with a sneer on his face. Kurt remembered vividly with such suddenness that it took his breath away that _feeling_, that _knowledge_ that he _could_ do this, affect the world around him on a scale that no human being should _ever_ be able to reach, and how _easy_ it was to be seduced into just…_acting_.

Kurt let go of that glowing kernel that Blaine had uncovered, but there was no pushing it back to where it was. Kurt was _awake_ now, alive in ways that he had never anticipated being, and there was no turning back. Blaine was staring at him in awe, but more than that; his cheeks were blushing and Kurt smiled lazily as he realised the thoughts flickering through his mind like fireflies were actually Blaine's memories of the nights that they had shared together, of holding hands through _Burlesque_ and sleeping in each other's arms, and abruptly Kurt heard the rest of Blaine's earlier thought:

_I never thought that I would fall in love with you_.

When they kissed, it was the most natural thing in the world to both of them. It was smooth and easy, slow and wickedly luscious. There was no time or space or dimension to the world but the two of them, lips moving in an ageless dance. It was innocent and free, a fragile piece of hope flaring to life between the two of them, that set Kurt's heart to pounding as he realised what he'd been fighting for over a month now: he was utterly in love with Blaine. Blaine drew back, grinning like a moron, and Kurt realised that Blaine had _heard_ him through the bond that he had created, and Kurt blushed but he smiled as well; he _wouldn't_ take it back.

But Blaine's smile dimmed, and the link between them grew weaker, and Kurt protested wordlessly – _why_ would Blaine want that blissful link between the two of them to end? But one thought loomed in Blaine's mind—one name. Kurt sighed, but they didn't let go of each other's hands as they lowered back down with a gentle bump, the world righting itself.

"He sent you here, didn't he?" Kurt guessed tiredly.

"He can't find your mind amongst the mad," Blaine said simply. "I wasn't supposed to tell you all of this – just to help you find your power. I suppose I did. He knows that you won't wait in here forever. He's obsessed with you, Kurt – he's been watching you since you were a child and he's convinced that the two of you are going to be together forever. That's why I let him do this to me today – because I had to warn you to _run_."

"And what happens to you if I do?" Kurt asked tiredly. Blaine frowned murderously.

"Don't you _dare_ put yourself at risk just for me, Kurt!" he snapped angrily. "I couldn't bare it—"

"And you think I _could_?" Kurt snapped suddenly, surging up from the bed. "What if I'm _not_ thinking about you, Blaine? What if I'm thinking about the next person he kills to get to me – the next person who dies because of _me_? He killed Karofsky, didn't he? Didn't he?"

"Yes," Blaine said hoarsely. "But you don't understand – the way he's bound himself to me, I can hold him back so that you could run away—"

"And if you _die_, then he's free again!" Kurt snarled.

"But if you give him what he wants—" Blaine protested.

"What _does_ he want?" Kurt demanded. "What does he want from me?"

"He wants a corporeal body – and _you_ can give him that, with your power," Blaine said quietly. "He wants to _live_, as he puts it. But if he does get what he wants, Kurt…he'll never die. He'll never end. He'll have all of his powers, but concentrated all the time. He could do things…he _wants_ to do things – be _worshipped_, even! And he wants to do it all with _you_ by his side, willing or not! He can _make_ you willing; you might be able to resist the watered-down version of him but not if you give in to him!"

"But if I don't he'll kill you," Kurt concluded quietly. Blaine clenched his eyes shut, and Kurt knew that he'd struck gold with that one: Leomaris would never stop coming after him, or the people that he loved.

"You can't care about that, Kurt."

"You're only saying that because you love me," Kurt said quietly. "But you need to understand something here, Blaine – I _love you too_. I _love you_, Blaine Anderson, and if you think for one second that I'm going to stand here and let _him_ kill you if I can do something to stop it, you're an _idiot_!"

When they kissed this time, it was like the Big Bang. Kurt's entire body responded; he could feel Blaine within him down to his _toes_. Their teeth clicked and their tongues tangled and Kurt felt hot and his heart filled. Blaine was crying and Kurt kissed away every tear, and Blaine held him close enough that he could barely get enough air. Kurt flicked out a thought, and the door locked, his iPod flicked music on louder than it should be able to, and the two tumbled together into the bed.

_If I could have just a moment of you_

_Would I be wanting more?_

_If I could have just a…taste, of you_

_Would I be addicted?_

_If I could have just a touch of you_

_Could I tear myself away?_

They moved together, two components of the oldest power in the universe, and Kurt saw the stars.

_I would pray to be the rain that over and in your skin_

_With no consequence_

_To be the liquid in your glass that falls around your lips and mouth_

_Swallow me_…

**888**

Against the wishes of Dr. Shane, Kurt filled his prescriptions and left the clinic on Sunday to return to Dalton Academy. He didn't say goodbye to his friends – now wasn't the time for that. He'd woken up Sunday morning alone, which didn't come as an enormous surprise to him. He'd know that Blaine had been a temporary gift from whatever higher powers there might have been smiling down on him, and he didn't think over-hard on it. Instead, he plugged in music so he wouldn't have to think, and drove to Westerville as the skies darkened into twilight.

_I just woke up from a fuzzy dream_

_You never would believe the things that I have seen_

_I looked in the mirror and I saw your face_

_You looked right through me, you were miles away_

_All my dreams, they fade away_

_I'll never be the same_

_If you could see me the way you see yourself—_

_I can't pretend to be someone else_

_You always love me more, miles away_

_I hear it in your voice, we're miles away_

_You're not afraid to tell me, miles away_

_I guess we're at our best, we're miles away_

_So far away, so far away…_

He threw his things back into their places and left a note on the desk, if _he_ even needed the note. Kurt wasn't bothering trying to hide himself anymore; boys in the halls were staring at him without being able to really explain why, and Kurt felt slightly guilty; he didn't mean to push them, but it was sort of _happening_. He shrugged; he wasn't hurting them and he didn't have the time to stop and apologise. That precipice that he'd been hurtling towards was finally close enough to see, and he was nearing the edge – but one piece hadn't fallen into place.

Fingering the phoenix pendant he wore, he hoped his mother could see him now as he sat calmly at one of the benches in the conservatory and waited.

Blaine's body walked into the room twenty minutes later. "Hello, Leomaris," Kurt said softly, and Blaine's face split into a slightly insane smile that Kurt found wretchedly disturbing after last night, but he didn't allow one jolt of this to show through to the possessed body in front of him.

"_Kurt_," Leomaris said reverently. "You have _no idea_ how long I've waited for you to call me by my _name_."

"It might have happened sooner if you weren't possessing an innocent boy's _body_," Kurt noted evenly.

"You aren't happy," Leomaris noted, frowning.

"You're right," Kurt nodded. Quinn thought that _she_ could play at being an icy bitch, Kurt thought with an inner smirk. "I'm locked in a room with a psychotic supernatural murderer who's been stalking me since childhood. I should be _thrilled_."

"You can't hide behind your words with me, Kurt," Leomaris said, stepping further into the room. The door swung shut behind him and clicked into the lock, though no one was touching it. "I've known you longer than anyone on this earth."

"You don't know one damn thing about me," Kurt said, standing up and joining Leomaris in the circling game that he was playing. Kurt wasn't about to be intimidated from this. "That I would _never_ forgive you for murdering innocent people to get to me, for one."

"I would hardly call David Karofsky innocent," Leomaris said with a shrug, stepping lithely in the current of air the two were creating between them, the air itself tense as a storm. "He _hurt_ you."

"He would never have gone as far as he did if _you_ hadn't haunted him," Kurt returned coldly. "The way that you haunted _me_."

"It didn't require much of a push, actually," Leomaris said lazily. "He was particularly easy to control – not like you. But then, I knew that you would be powerful enough to resist me. Your power is like a torch in the darkness, Kurt. And I will show that to you, in time."

"I won't do what you want me to do," Kurt rejected, and Leomaris smirked.

"Falling back onto that sweet afternoon in the rain?" he said, and Kurt narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I saw how this weak little boy seduced you – not so weak after all, I suppose. But Blaine has served his purpose, and made himself a nuisance to me. It would hurt you to see him dead?"

"I saw what Amelia did to you," Kurt said, stepping forward. Leomaris' eyes narrowed, and he took a step back. "If you hurt him, I will scatter you to the winds and you will _never_, ever be able to take shape again."

"You could certainly try, my little phoenix," Leomaris said indulgently. "But you are just a witch, Kurt. You have no real comprehension of what I am."

"Then if you're so powerful, why don't you do this yourself?" Kurt demanded. "Why do you need me?"

"I love you, Kurt," Leomaris said simply. Kurt felt like gagging, but he swallowed it back. "I would have you beside me – and besides, I am of a different world than you. To gain physical shape in this world, I need a witch of _this_ world – as powerful as you – to grant me that corporeality. Feeding off of the blood of those villagers gave me immediacy, those hundreds of years ago, but it wasn't until I drank Amelia's soul, her power, that I realised that I could gain shape in this world. For years, I searched the world for a light that burnt as strong as hers had, but every witch merely died. I could drink of their powers like the vampires of human stories, but that only allowed me…_immediacy_, in this world – not the _life_ that I was seeking… Until I met your mother."

"My _mother_?" Kurt gasped, stunned. Leomaris smiled indulgently, taking advantage of Kurt's shock to move forward, caress Kurt's cheek lightly until Kurt pulled back. The spirit smiled a Cheshire cat grin, and Kurt felt sick. "Oh, yes, she was immensely powerful, but she was strong enough to fight me off. I couldn't influence her; but the child she conceived on the night of the summer solstice? The babe that she nurtured under the light of the full moon and whispered her power into its veins? When you were born, you were the most beautiful sight that I had ever seen, and so I watched you – watched you grow until you stand before me now…_exquisite_."

The words were perverse, paedophilic praise, and Kurt jerked away from Leomaris with a horrified cry escaping his lips. He felt _filthy_. "Did you…did…"

"Did I 'murder' your mother, as you put it? No," Leomaris answered after a moment. "As the future has advanced, the illnesses of the time I came to be aware in have evolved. Your mother's illness was…terrifying. She was so powerful, and yet struck down…" For the first time, Kurt heard a quiver of weakness in Leomaris' voice, and the thought was so simple, so childish, that Kurt froze.

"You're _afraid to die_," he whispered, and Leomaris made a small, noncommittal noise.

"Aren't you?" the spirit countered.

"Yes," Kurt nodded.

"I don't want to die," Leomaris said. "I suppose that that makes me human, does it not?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Kurt said, weakly snapping. Leomaris smirked.

"This world is an exquisite torture – the senses of a human! To hold the skull between one's hands, holding the human brain, the most amazing thing…to feel it crack, and watch that force of _life_ slipping from someone's eyes…" Leomaris took a breath. "When you give me what I am seeking, my power will be absolute, and your power will increase because of it. You will never have to die either, Kurt, and you'll see how we can change this world together."

He moved, taking Kurt's hand in his, and Kurt shivered as something like the alchemy between him and Blaine took place as Leomaris placed Kurt's hand on the soil of one of the tree sapling stands. Kurt watched in fascination as green vines slowly ripened to bud from where his fingers touched, stretching toward the tree, wrapping themselves around its trunk. "But one cannot give without taking," Leomaris whispered, and Kurt watched with an aching sadness as the sapling began to die, wilting slowly, its life only spurring the vines on, until all that was left in the pot were thorny vines that bore a single blood-red rose.

"That's a _plant_," Kurt bit out, jerking away, the heady rush of life and death tingling through his body like wildfire. "You're talking about _human beings_ – you influence people, take their free wills away – you're talking about people's souls! You're a _murderer_!"

"Why should that plant not have a soul as well?" Leomaris asked carelessly. "Or the animals that you eat for supper? The laws of nature state simply, kill or be killed. Nature is not good or evil, Kurt, it _is_. You can join me by making your choice. I will have you by my side, one way or another – but one way is to willingly give me what I want rather than see your precious Blaine at knifepoint. Join me, or stay shivering in terror because the night is dark. But never, ever forget that _I_ am offering you to join my side as a _god_."

Leomaris walked away from the room, the door closing behind him, and his voice echoed powerfully through Kurt's consciousness. _**Wednesday night is the full moon, little phoenix. That is the night that it will happen. Meet me in the library before midnight…and make your choice.**_

Kurt felt him withdraw, and he looked into the depths of the blood rose and wept.

**888**

"Hey, Momma," Kurt whispered, tracing his mother's name upon her grave. "I know that I haven't visited in a while, but…I really wish you were here. I'm _so scared_…" She didn't answer. His mother was dead and gone. Kurt lay out upon her grave and sobbed.

It was Monday, and he'd skipped school. He knew that Dalton had most likely called his father, who would be panicking by now. Kurt snorted bitterly and straightened up after several long minutes. His father had said that he was just like his mother, but Kurt felt _nothing_ like Elizabeth Hummel. His mother had been graceful and beautiful and kind. She'd never been arbitrarily mean, like Kurt could be. She would help anyone and everyone, and she would know exactly what to do in this situation.

"_Any problem can be solved with love, Kurt," Elizabeth had told him when he was a small child. "Love is the strongest thing in this entire universe. When two people love each other, they bind each other's souls. Darkness can cover everything, but it never wins, because in the end you only need a candle to make the darkness go away. Well, love isn't a candle. Love is a fire that can ignite the stars."_

"_Mommy, I don't understand," Kurt whined. He wanted to play outside in the garden. Elizabeth smiled sadly, pressing a hand to the pain in her lungs._

"_One day, you will," she said simply, and kissed his forehead._

_She would do what was _right_,_ Kurt thought. "The hardest thing in this world is to _live_ in it," Buffy the Vampire Slayer had once said. Kurt had never thought that he would understand what she had meant. "Goodbye, Momma," Kurt whispered, and pushed himself up from the cold earth. He knew exactly what his mother would do. He was her son. He would make her proud.

When Kurt walked away from the cemetery, he didn't see a lone, beautiful, white lily bloom into life over Elizabeth Hummel's grave.

**888**

Kurt spent the rest of the day with Burt, who took the day off of work and had one of his workers cover the shift. He didn't ask, and Kurt didn't have to tell him. Instead, they went for a drive, the way that they used to right after Elizabeth's death. Kurt took his father's hand and squeezed it, and he thought that Burt understood, because he didn't say anything; he just squeezed back.

At home, they watched home movies – Burt, teaching Kurt to ride a bike; Kurt teaching Burt how to participate in the tea parties his mother had been so good at. They both had a good laugh at the look on film-Burt's face when he'd had to lift his pinkie to sip at the delicate china, and the exasperated look on Kurt's smaller face when he accused his father of being hopeless.

They cooked dinner together, a big, slopping glob of unhealthy meat and potatoes, and reminisced about the times when a hard financial hit had struck the auto shop and that winter Burt had had to briefly get a second job, and how some nights he would wake Kurt up from sleep and they would cook a late dinner together.

Over the table, Kurt told Burt about Blaine, every last detail that he could think of from the wave of his curls to the warmth of his chocolate eyes to the little oddly-shaped freckle just beneath his left eye. Burt wondered aloud about meeting Blaine with a shotgun in hand, and Kurt promptly gave him a good whack upside the head, laughing when Burt gave Kurt a dopey, hurt look, and then a fierce hug when Burt made sure that Kurt understood that as long as Blaine made Kurt happy, that was what mattered.

That night, Burt tucked Kurt into bed like Kurt was a small child, and Kurt drifted to sleep with a smile on his face.

**888**

Quinn stepped out of the shower with a smile on her face. She had always been a morning person, and she was, somewhat selfishly, looking forward to whatever antics Puck was going to try to pull that day. She hummed to herself as she pulled on the outfit she had picked out for herself the night before. Grabbing her backpack, she lightly headed down the stairs, frowning when she didn't hear her mother in the kitchen.

"Hi, Quinn," said a soft voice from the living room, and Quinn let out a startled shriek when she saw Kurt sitting in the rocking chair near the television. "Sorry; I didn't mean to scare you," he said, but he was smirking slightly.

"You are a _jerk_," Quinn pronounced, shaking her head. "What's going on?"

"Your mother said that you were in the shower. I suppose I'm too gay for her to consider me a threat, leaving me alone in the house to wait for you," Kurt said apologetically. "I apologise for my inability to ravish you in the shower properly." There was a beat, maybe two, before they both cracked up, laughing harder than Quinn could remember laughing in a good while. She rolled her eyes and moved forward, pulling Kurt into a hug, surprised when she thought for just a moment that she felt him trembling. But it passed as quickly as it began, and she was sure she must have imagined it.

"You look…different," she said, before she could stop herself – and it was true. Kurt was holding himself with easy grace, his body announcing…_presence_, almost, in her living room. It was a bit unnerving, but she shrugged it off. "What brings you by?"

"I…need to ask you a personal question," Kurt said after a moment. Quinn frowned.

"The kind that you don't need a phone for?" she said leadingly, and when he nodded, she felt a pang of worry. "Okay, then."

They sat down, facing each other across the coffee table, and then six words that she had never, ever thought she'd hear falling from Kurt's lips rang through her living room. "Why do you believe in God?"

"Um…excuse me?" Quinn asked, taken aback. Kurt's eyes were shining, serious and bright, and Quinn had the uneasy feeling that this was one of the most loaded questions that she had ever been asked.

"You told me once that I needed to have faith in something. Why do you have faith?" Kurt asked, leaning forward. Quinn sat back a moment and thought, carefully wording her answer.

"When I wake up in the morning, I think, why did I wake up?" she began slowly. "There's so much of this world that we take for granted. I know about theories of evolution and all, but I can't see the world around me, or the people in it, and not believe in God. To me, He's all around us, every day."

"You know, one thing about Christianity that always struck me as hypocritical was the idea of Hell – you know, do good things or you'll go to the bad place. How do you know the real difference between if what you're doing is right or wrong? How do you make a choice, knowing that the outcome is either one or the other but not both?" Kurt wasn't meeting her eyes, and Quinn leaned forward, taking his hands in hers.

"Some Christians don't even believe in Hell, per se," Quinn said, hoping to get through to him. "When God created us, He gave us free will. It isn't…the choices that we make are what defines us," Quinn settled on finally. "I think that I'm going to Heaven when I die – or, I'd like to think that. I also think that I'll see plenty of non-believers in paradise too, because they led good lives. If you choose – if you make a choice, and _you_ know that the choice was good, and it doesn't hurt other people, then it was the right choice. You don't have to believe in my God to be a good person, Kurt."

"Quinn…" Kurt faltered; then he gripped her hands, weighing his words. "I have _faith_ in something now. I want to make the choice to do the right thing. But I'm scared." When Quinn tried to question this, Kurt shook his head. "I can't talk about it – just _trust me_. I just need you to tell me something: can I be scared of doing the right thing, even though I know that it's the right thing?"

"Of _course_ you can," Quinn said strongly. "There's a _world_ of difference between what's right and what's easy – but that's what makes us humans, right? That we _keep trying_, even though we screw up." Kurt closed his eyes, and he smiled briefly, before he leaned forward and enveloped her in a hug.

"Promise me that you and I will make the right choice, not the easy one," Kurt whispered in her ear, and Quinn nodded when she hugged him back. If he was really talking about what she thought that he was talking about, and she'd talked him down… Tears smarted in her eyes, and she held on fiercely. But if he wasn't actually talking about…_that_, then there was no way she could suggest that to him. So when they pulled back, she didn't say anything; she just walked him to the door, hand in hand.

"Kurt?" she said finally, once he'd started walking out of the door. He turned back, and she smiled. "You know that I love you, right?"

"Of course I know that," Kurt said with a smile. "I've always known that. You know that I love you too, right?" She nodded, and he gave her his trademark picture-perfect smile and Hollywood wave as he turned away and walked down her driveway. Quinn watched him drive toward the rising sun until the light was bright enough to hurt her eyes and she had to look away.

**888**

Kurt walked the length of the pond alone Tuesday afternoon, after he'd pulled back into Westerville. It had been a long drive, and he'd taken it slowly, taking as many detours as he liked. His mother had been that way, too; it was why on their few family vacations that Kurt remembered, they had usually flown, as Elizabeth would insist on stopping for the scenery at every rest stop to the point that it had gotten on Burt's nerves; a younger Kurt had simply appreciated never having to hold in the need to wee and had gotten to stretch his legs as much as he liked as they were constantly stopping.

The wind rippled, and he imagined deliriously that he could hear the mermaids singing humans to their deaths in the mysterious depths of the water.

His favourite memory was of the time that Burt and Elizabeth had planned around Elizabeth's constant desire to stop, so they'd taken a day trip to Virginia and had spent the following day driving along a stretch of the Blue Ridge Parkway, stopping at the scenic overlooks for pictures and a picnic lunch. The next day they had kept driving, finally arriving at Virginia Beach and spending the afternoon on the sand. It had been the first time that Kurt had ever seen the ocean, and he'd been astounded and slightly terrified of the endless sea, stretching farther than the eye could see and seemingly endless.

Kurt sat down near the willow tree he had marked as his favourite earlier that year, when he'd been happily oblivious to the world around him, and leaned back against its trunk, watching the sun sink over the water, turning the pond to fiery liquid, its secrets masked to the world above. The day was slowly dying, and the night would take its place. Rather than watch the moon rise, Kurt chose to go inside. The boys around him remained oblivious to his presence, just the way he wished it. Kurt walked the halls of Dalton, stopping by the choir room the Warblers used and admiring the trophy he had helped them win, proudly on display at the front of the room. Pavarotti chirped musically at him and Kurt whistled softly back to him as he shut the door.

Back in his dorm room, Kurt gently ran his hands over the bed that he and Blaine had shared those treasured nights – Blaine, a beautiful boy who had had his life stolen from him too early. He turned away and undressed, carefully putting his things away. He dressed in an elegant long-sleeved white shirt, and slipped on a pair of black slacks. Kurt finally slipped his mother's necklace on, fingering it slowly.

There was nothing to do now but let fate play its course. He was at the edge of the precipice, and he could see the other side – but how to leap over the chasm? Kurt smiled wryly, before he turned and grabbed the crystal-handled letter opener from the desk, tucking it into his pocket and heading toward his destiny.

**8**

The Dalton Academy Library was a large place with two levels, and at the centre of the lower level was a large study space. Kurt wasn't duly surprised when he walked in to find that the tables had been swept carelessly to the side. The moonlight was shining through the domed glass ceiling, bathing the world in an otherworldly glow, and Blaine's body stood, prone, like some statue of a pagan god at the centre of the light.

"Kurt," Leomaris whispered, and Kurt stepped forward. The door swung shut behind him and the lock latched into place, sealing him off from the world around him. "You came."

"Yes," Kurt answered, walking forward. Leomaris turned around and smiled then.

"My bride," he said, holding his hand out for Kurt to take.

"I'm not a girl," Kurt responded automatically.

"Semantics," Leomaris said pleasantly. Kurt slipped his hand into the offered one, and shivered as he felt Leomaris' influence wash over him, dizzyingly powerful; he'd obviously been building himself up in the days since Kurt had seen him last. It was making it hard to think, shadowing Kurt's mind with doubts and questions. His heart beat painfully fast. "You will be my eternal companion, my father and my lover and my child," Leomaris went on. Kurt shivered as the spirit's power wrapped around him like the touch of a lover, shifting and caressing, and he looked down to see that he was now barefoot, his pants black as night and shining like a spider's web, his shirt a shimmering white material that glowed in the moonlight. It was like wedding garb from a nightmarish faerie tale, and Kurt pulled away.

"Come now, my love – it's far too late to be shy," Leomaris chided, chuckling as if he found Kurt's horror adorable. "Tonight is the night that we will be bound together forever – that this world will witness the birth of its new gods."

"I don't even know how to _do_ what you want me to do," Kurt whispered. His mind was still in scrambles; he fought through the fog in his mind, trying to _think_. This was wrong; he was barely _seventeen_ years old – what on earth could he do in this situation faced with this power, this ancient…

Kurt shook his head again, struggling sluggishly against Leomaris' hold on him, and the spirit once more laughed, a cold sound and nothing like Blaine's warm rumble… Kurt felt a small flame curl into life in his stomach. _Blaine_.

"I do know, don't you worry about that," Leomaris said carelessly. "You'll simply have to bind us together, and I will do the rest." He stepped forward, behind Kurt, wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist and kissing him lightly on the neck. Kurt's skin crawled, the clarity of the fire in his being coming forward, but Leomaris wasn't trying to read him; after all, he already had Kurt under his influence. What could Kurt do?

"Wait," Kurt said, turning within the confines of Leomaris' dark embrace. "What about Blaine?"

"What about him?" Leomaris asked carelessly.

"Will he die, if you leave him?" Kurt asked, keeping his voice small and tremulous. Leomaris sighed fondly and kissed Kurt's forehead.

"No; his body is very much alive. I _could_ kill him, if you like…" Kurt shook his head mutely, and Leomaris sighed. "I don't like that you would think of him, now; he's nothing to either of us."

"Think of it as a…wedding present," Kurt suggested, pleading with his eyes, all strength and defiance gone. "He's no threat to you – or _us_. Like you said, we'll be bound together, you and I; what could he do to either of us? With _our_ power?"

Leomaris threw back his head and laughed. "You have such a heart, Kurt, one that I will so enjoy corrupting. You think to play me on my weakness for you?" When Kurt tried to shake his head, Leomaris merely laughed once more and pulled him in for another kiss, dizzying and hard and draining, and Kurt stumbled back from it, feeling cold. "But, it will be as you wish it; I'll leave him alive until you wish otherwise."

"Thank you," Kurt whispered, his eyes tearing up. Leomaris gently wiped his tears away.

"It's time, my love. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Kurt breathed.

"Then open up to me, pretty – give me everything," the spirit whispered, and leaned down to kiss Kurt. Their lips met, and Kurt was caught in a maelstrom. Every single fibre of his being felt Leomaris joining to him; their spirits mingled until Kurt could feel him with every breath he took, every step forward or back—surely he would be driven _mad_, feeling two beings alive within him at once. It was too much, too much, and the world was spiralling into a circle, an eternity, and Kurt was lost to it, hopelessly lost, with no hope of recovery…

"Kurt?" Blaine rasped, and Kurt stumbled back, holding on to one of the tables for support. Leomaris stood between the two of them, vaguely there, like an old photograph – his phantom form, a form that had haunted Kurt's dreams, his every waking moment, since he was a small child. Kurt stared at him dumbly, and Leomaris smiled. "Oh, god, Kurt, no, what did you do—"

"What he was always meant to do," Leomaris said, cutting Blaine off. His voice echoed with power, vibrating through Kurt's very _being_. "Now, Kurt, it's time to finish it."

"Kurt, _no_!" Blaine yelled. "You _can't_—"

"I _have to_," Kurt said fiercely. "This, Blaine, this is _everything_." Blaine stared at him in horror as Leomaris smiled delightedly, his black predator's eyes lighting up with delight as Kurt stepped into his embrace.

The skies darkened overhead; a storm was rolling in. Kurt was trapped in Leomaris' gaze, the black eyes holding him trapped as they had for so many years. This time, however, Kurt stepped toward those eyes, those eyes that gazed at him so possessively, owning his entire being. Kurt slipped his hands into those of his phantom's, charged with electricity, and felt Leomaris surge through him, naked and inside out before him as Leomaris touched that most intimate part of Kurt's being and Kurt felt that glowing kernel of _power_ respond to Leomaris' touch.

Power ripped through Kurt like a volcanic eruption; it burnt like fire and it _hurt_ beyond any pain that he had ever known before, tearing through his entire being. He screamed as every muscle of his body worked on overdrive to support that part of himself, straining beyond recognition. He couldn't do this, it was _killing_ him; but Leomaris would not let him stop. The pain didn't just continue, it _increased_, it knocked him straight to his knees and he felt Blaine's hands around his waist; Kurt wanted to apologise but he couldn't find the words as he automatically leeched power from Blaine that he could feel from the other boy, knowing that he was hurting Blaine but unable to stop.

Lightning split the sky like a sword through paper and the wind howled outside as a profane birth took place; Leomaris was screaming as well as spirit was melded to the atoms around it, excited to _life_; his facsimile of flesh became real and the spirit screamed in pain as a heart began to beat, the newborn muscles working to develop as he took his first breath and the pain of his lungs expanding knocked him to his knees. The once-spirit wept as a newborn, the pain increasing and increasing until _finally_ it started to slow.

All three of them were collapsed on the floor as the storm began to abate, the clouds beginning to clear as the cold light of the moon sliced into the library. Blaine choked, a horrified sound, and Kurt lifted his head weakly, staring in horrified fascination as Leomaris struggled to his knees. There was silence in the room except for the ragged sound of their breathing. Kurt felt vaguely sick; his world was spinning in disorientation as he was simultaneously sharing his vision, his life, with Leomaris' newborn human body – every feeling, every scent, every taste and touch and sound and sight flooding the man…spirit…_thing's_ body was reoccurring to Kurt's overwhelmed brain and he whimpered in pain, curling further into the calming waves emanating from Blaine's psyche.

When Leomaris had forcibly thrust open all centres of Kurt's power, there was no way to close them; Kurt could see the entire world around him as a burning firelight of molecules and cosmic swirls. His brain couldn't process the information at once and he felt like he might go blind. No human was _meant_ to see the world like this, stripped down to the core, and the fact that _he_ could terrified Kurt to the depths of his heart; if _he_ could do this, what then could Leomaris accomplish?

The daemon seemed to wonder the same thing, as he slowly stumbled to his feet, laughing at the difficulties of walking in his new form. Leomaris looked around the world with a burning hunger in his eyes, and Kurt could feel the echoes of that hunger down to his core. It was like a child learning the world for the first time, but the base of this wasn't knowledge, but a desire for _ownership_ and control. There was something almost…seductive about seeing the world in such an extreme view of black and white, choices unfettered by moral scruples. Leomaris was a god, or as close as any creature could come to becoming one. What did it matter, what frail human philosophy could possibly shutter his desire to become master over everything?

Leomaris held on to a table for balance, and at his mere touch the wood excited itself, becoming supple and snappy as a sapling; the solid oak legs trembled and wavered as if caught in a high wind. The wood creaked and groaned and protested, shifting in a dizzyingly sped-up state of entropy before, with a squeal, something gave and the table exploded in a shower of splinters, the debris raining down to scatter on the floor in particles small as ashes, blown away to nothing in a matter of seconds. Leomaris stared at his hands with a giddy delight, and waved one with a small amount of force. Kurt barely registered the _intent_ behind that movement, not even a complete _thought_, in the back of his mind before three enormous tables, solid oak and heavy as grand pianos on their own, lifted up and flew into the wall with a sickening _crunch_, one right after the other.

"My god," Blaine whispered behind him, but Kurt couldn't tear his eyes away from the display as Leomaris closed his eyes in rapture, stretching his senses out beyond what should have even been possible.

His aura mingled with Kurt's with a crackling of primal energies, heavy and dark, and Kurt felt every coherent thought in his head scatter like fireflies into the night; dizzy, disoriented, he stumbled back into Blaine as Leomaris blocked Kurt's access to his power. It left him feeling sluggish and weak as a lost lamb, like he'd lost a limb. His eyes adjusting, Kurt really beheld what he had created for the first time.

Leomaris stood before the two of them. He was tall, with fair skin. His raven-dark hair had bloody streaks playing through it in subtle waves. His features were as perfect as a carving on a Greco-Roman coin, his chest as muscled as Michelangelo's statue of _David_. Unconcerned by his nudity, Leomaris preened slightly as he felt Kurt's acknowledgment of his attractiveness, but by shutting off Kurt's powers, a part of Kurt's mind was once more hidden from his demonic suitor and Kurt kept that part of himself as secret as possible, hiding his urge to scream and cry like a child trapped in a nightmare: Leomaris had captured the form that he had used to haunt Kurt, and in the sharing of their minds, their memories, Kurt had seen the more than thirty witches that Leomaris had killed in his centuries-long quest to find someone like Kurt to fulfil his plans. And his eyes; of course, his eyes – they were pure black, hidden no longer through a façade of humanity he had maintained through his possessions; doll's eyes, predator's eyes, they burnt with the fire of creation at the centre and held absolutely no mercy nor compassion in their depths.

And Kurt saw _himself_ in Leomaris' eyes: layers upon layers of obsession, a desire so strong that Kurt thought he might drown in it. Leomaris would never let him go. But then, that had been something that he'd figured out long ago, hadn't it? Leomaris caught his eye in that dizzying way of his, and Kurt felt himself losing hope. "You have no idea, my love…the _power_—and it need not just be destruction," he added, as if playing to Kurt's sensibilities. "Look!"

The daemon reached into the air around him, drawing molecules and particles to him like a magnet, swirling around him like a miniature hurricane; they formed in front of him to a conical shape that was moving faster and faster, like a planet's orbit but sped up to the speed of a cartoon. It glowed, small at first but brighter and brighter until Kurt had to slam his eyes shut as the searing pain of what he was witnessing hit his retinas; the world around him was shaking in protest as things were warped beyond nature's intentions and his head was spinning with a constant vertiginous nausea. Just when he thought it was too much, it was over, and Leomaris was whispering, "Look, my love – a wedding gift."

Kurt chanced a look and stopped. Spinning lazily in the centre of the room was a small globe of what looked like water, but was more solid—a mass, like a miniature moon, built up of the basic cosmic dust in the air around them. Leomaris chuckled as Kurt stared dumbly at the thing, so tiny, so pointless, and yet it filled him with revulsion as his brain rejected the fact of its existence: a perversion of the natural order. And Kurt could sense the effort put into making it: the carbon stolen from the air around them, the elements from the ground beneath them. An entire generation of plant life would never grow for the meaningless little satellite's existence. _If he can create that out of potential plant life…what will he do with us humans when he gets bored with pyrotechnics?_

"You see it now, Kurt," Leomaris said softly, moving forward. "You understand? You are the only person alive who could even understand the simple mechanics behind this. You have so much power, and when you finally unleash yourself you will join me at my side. They will _worship_ us, Kurt! Think—all those who have hated you, tormented you, and you are on a higher plane, so far above them that crushing them will be as simple as the death of an ant hive."

With that came a memory.

—"_Oh my god!" a girl screamed, but she did nothing to actually help. God? Kurt thought contemptuously. He was God, and he was furious. He wondered giddily what would happen if he wished for Karofsky to die. The boy made a strangled noise as blood began to seep from his nose. Kurt watched in wretched fascination, not knowing or caring about how's or why's, nor that people were pointing at him and backing away like he had the plague; no, what mattered now was that he owed Karofsky pain. He felt capable then of anything, and he had a seductively nightmarish image of him floating amongst the ashes of this school like some pagan god, tearing McKinley to nothing. These people were animals, brutish creatures; they thought and believed in nothing and he could make them nothing_—

He could feel it within him, too – that mass of power, lit up like a hand grenade so briefly within him like a dark, primal song that Leomaris had tapped into for his own creation. Though it had hurt like fire to _access_ it, the actual rush of _using_ it had hit him like an orgasm from his own endorphins; it was like speed, like crack, headier than heroine, even, to be _like_ Leomaris and to create and consume and destroy in the blink of an eye for the sheer joy of _letting go_. Isn't that what all humans truly desired? Their freedom? The subconscious, the seat of all emotion, unfettered by moral principals or ideas of _right_ or _wrong_. _When you're a god, who is there to tell you what _is_ right or wrong?_ Kurt thought, rocking backward.

But there were other memories behind the dark sea that Leomaris was pulling him under. Kurt dove down below the surface, searching, searching for the light that he had found when he had come here in the first place – memories of home, family, love. He remembered the night that he and Blaine had shared together and held on to it tightly; he remembered his father holding his hand as they'd walked away from his mother's grave and then again when Burt had seemed dead and his recovery a miracle; he remembered his mother when she whispered in his ear, _"Any problem can be solved with love, Kurt," Elizabeth had told him when he was a small child. "Love is the strongest thing in this entire universe. When two people love each other, they bind each other's souls. Darkness can cover everything, but it never wins, because in the end you only need a candle to make the darkness go away. Well, love isn't a candle. Love is a fire that can ignite the stars."_ He hadn't understood her then, but, oh, did he feel her with him now.

Kurt held on to that with everything he had when he stood up and crossed to Leomaris, joining their hands together. "Kurt, _no_—" Blaine choked, but Leomaris carelessly turned to him and thought, _Pain_ and Blaine curled in on himself on the ground, whimpering as every nerve ending in his body began to burn.

"What do you want, Kurt?" Leomaris asked, his voice echoing in Kurt's ears and in his mind all at once, an utterly overwhelming sensation.

"I want to believe again," Kurt said simply, and Leomaris frowned. Where Kurt's mind hid in the light of his loved ones, though, the daemon couldn't follow, and Kurt could feel him trying desperately.

"I can make you believe," Leomaris offered, unsure.

"You already have," Kurt whispered, his eyes filling up with tears and his heart filling with song. "Kiss me?" Leomaris smiled, triumphant, and cradled Kurt's head in his hands, bending down, kissing away each tear, his skin cold as a corpse. Kurt shivered, and Leomaris smirked against his skin, believing his beloved in delight. He bent down and joined their lips in a kiss powerful enough to burn the world to cinders, a kiss that Kurt felt through his entire being. Behind that kiss was power and control, but not love: obsession.

Kurt pulled back, and joined his mind to Blaine, so that Blaine could hear in every last centimetre of his being the words that Kurt had longed to say to him for so long. "I love you," Kurt said, feeling his declaration heard on every plane of existence, feeling Blaine still. Kurt smiled, never more at peace in his entire life. Leomaris pulled back, and Kurt kissed him again, just a brush of lips, and whispered, "Goodbye."

With that, he stepped back, reached into his pocket, withdrew the small knife, and stabbed Leomaris straight through the heart.

_**Blaine**_

When Blaine felt the pain ease back from his body, he felt a shiver wrack through him, painful enough to make his aching muscles scream in protest, but he dragged himself to his knees anyway—and froze. Kurt and Leomaris were a bare foot from each other, but Blaine could see the cold edge of the moonlight glinting off of the hilt of the crystal letter-opener from his desk. He felt despair pulse through him – stupid, brave Kurt; Leomaris had made sure that the body that he was given was _immortal_; it was half the reason for his grand scheme!

He couldn't really process that Leomaris' mouth was open in horror, or that the black ichors dripping from the corners of his mouth was blood. There was no way… "Kurt…you…I…" Kurt took a faltering step forward and grasped Leomaris' hands in his own, holding him, something indescribable passing over his face – almost ecstatic, almost mournful, but mysterious and powerful. Blaine, who had in his imprisonment become a connoisseur of Kurt's expressive facial movements, had nothing for this. "I…_feel_…I…"

"I know," Kurt whispered gently. "You're human." Leomaris tried to speak again, to say something, but he choked, and Blaine watched as blood began to drip like tears from his eyes; his entire body stiffened and he collapsed. Blaine watched him fall so slowly, his mind registering the fall of this _demon_ that had been so much; it seemed to take forever until Leomaris' head hit the floor of the library with a crack, his face marred by blood but still impossibly beautiful, a young god in repose – a sleep from which he would never awaken.

He was dead.

Kurt stumbled back from the body and stared at it, something like hysterical laughter or tears escaping him – maybe both. Blaine was numb with too much feeling: he was _free_, they were _both_ free…but _how_?

When Kurt made a small gasping noise, Blaine's heart turned to stone. He already knew the answer, of course, but he didn't really want to believe it until he turned to see Kurt breathing hard, clutching at his heart uselessly. "No," Blaine whispered, the scream in his head echoing over and over as he burst out, "_NO!_" _What have you _done_, Kurt?_ he screamed in his mind, stumbling over himself in idiotic, clumsy bumbling as he rushed to Kurt's side, gathering the other boy's precious head in his lap, wiping the hair back from his face. Kurt was white as a sheet and obviously in pain, but he smiled beatifically when he saw Blaine's face and Blaine's heart _hurt_ so much he thought that he would never be whole again.

"He _told_ me," Kurt gasped, answering Blaine's question, chuckling weakly, a pale imitation of Kurt's movie-star laugh. "He had to join himself to my soul so that we could do the work together, but I didn't cut the connection…"

_Like an umbilical cord_, Blaine thought, the knowledge shooting through him from Kurt – because Kurt was getting weaker, he couldn't talk… _While he was still tied to me, he was still mortal. He never thought that was a danger…he never thought that I would do this._

"Kurt – you…you…"

"Killed myself, Blaine," Kurt answered for him, his voice stronger, until he jerked back. His heartbeat was weakening; Blaine could feel it through the connection he and Kurt had opened between them. "And I would do it again."

"Oh, _god_, Kurt," Blaine whispered. "No, please, I'm begging you—"

_It's okay, Blaine_, Kurt whispered soothingly into Blaine's mind. Their souls were mingling together in a cruel parody of their lovemaking, and Blaine stubbornly jerked away from Kurt's contact and shoved himself deeper into Kurt, delving into the depths of his soul and _pushing_. Kurt, sensing what he was doing, tried to push Blaine away, but Blaine stubbornly held on.

Then the pain hit _his_ heart, and he gasped, shaking; Kurt was shaking his head but his heart was rallying—

"_No_," Kurt said, and Blaine felt him summoning up some last vestiges of that vast power within him and shoving Blaine away. Blaine felt immediately better, stronger, but Kurt was weaker than ever, paling on his lap, fading _away_…

"Please, Kurt, please—I love you, I can do this, I can give you me and you can _live_!" Blaine pleaded desperately. "Please! _Please_!"

"I love you too," Kurt whispered, bringing a hand up to trace over Blaine's lips. "I have from the night I first met you. My heart has always been bound to you. I'm giving this to you…" Kurt choked; shook; gasped for air, and Blaine choked, the tears running down his face to mingle, and Kurt gave up on words, breathing out, "Oh…" and simply joined his mind to Blaine's, to let Blaine see what he was seeing: _light_, pure, glorious light, transcendent and wonderful, and Blaine cried out as it became too much to bear. But it was beckoning to Kurt, taking him away, and Blaine felt his heart turn to stone as he realised that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"I…I love…I _love_…"

Kurt's hand fell away from Blaine's face to hit the ground with a _thud_, cold, resolute, and final, his breath leaving him like one last musical note on the final crescendo of a symphony, beautiful and pure.

He was dead.

_**Quinn**_

"_Kurt!_" Quinn screamed, horrified, confused, as her best friend's impossibly pale body was cradled by a shaking, sobbing Blaine Anderson. On the floor next to them was a dead body, naked, with some kind of knife sticking out of him and blood pooling out from him on the floor, like the tears of acid that Pandora wept upon opening her fatal Box. None of that mattered, though; in a matter of seconds Quinn streaked to collapse on her knees, shaking Kurt and then screaming, uncontrollable, when she felt the coolness of his body – there was no heartbeat.

"_What the hell happened_?" Quinn screamed, turning her eyes on Blaine. "I knew that we couldn't trust you! What did you _do_?"

"There isn't _time_ for this!" Blaine snarled, and lunged at her. Kurt's body fell with a weak thud and Quinn's stomach roiled; before she could process the strong desire to vomit, Blaine's fingers were digging painfully into her skull; she yelled and shoved at him, trying to break free, before she _screamed_. What felt like a _spike_ was drilling into her head, the most intense migraine that she'd ever experienced: it wasn't until that first blinding flash of pain struck her that she began to understand that names, faces, images, memories were flooding her head like a torrent. Quinn gasped and fell back, clutching her head and shaking all over; it was _impossible_ but Blaine was shaking her and calling her name, over and over, and she clutched to that like a lifeline as she felt him guiding her back to herself.

"Oh my _God_!" she choked out, jerking away from him. "You…I…what the _hell_ is going on?" But as she breathed, she already knew the answer—Blaine had _given_ her the answer. "This is _impossible_," she breathed, staring at him…but Kurt lay dead between them, as pale as the dead _monster_ near her whose blood was pooling beneath her like some hellish baptism, stark evidence of the insane story spun in her _mind_ from the boy in front of her, tears streaking down his face like a river.

"Quinn," he said frantically, talking so fast that if he weren't speaking _into her head_ as well she would never have understood what he was saying. "You were a mother – you gave birth to new life; that was why Leomaris could never influence you: you had the same power that all women have and when you gave birth to your baby it just strengthened so he couldn't get into your head. You're just like me and Kurt, you always have been, but that doesn't matter; what matters _now_ is that you can be a mother again: you can _bring Kurt back!_"

He was hurling more and more knowledge into her, things that Leomaris had revealed to _him_ during his possession, and Quinn suddenly understood exactly what he was saying. "You're asking me to suck the life out of you and put it back into him," Quinn summarised dumbly, echoing Blaine's desperate thoughts. "You want me to kill you."

"It wouldn't be _murder_ if you only did it to _give_ someone else life again!" Blaine said desperately. "He killed himself to save us—save _all_ of us; he doesn't _deserve to die_!"

And, God help her, she _could_ do what he was asking – he'd all but shoved a blueprint down her throat. All she would have to do would be to put one hand over Blaine's heart, another over his head, and _pull_ the animus that made both function toward her, then place her hand over Kurt's heart and channel the energy into _it_, like a defibrillator for his entire body. It wouldn't even be _difficult_, the process; her body would handle most of it like going through the primal instincts of childbirth. Which was exactly why Blaine had called to her, why he'd dragged her here: his life in exchange for Kurt's.

Either way, she would be a murderer. If she went along with Blaine's plan, she would be murdering him. But if she had a chance to save Kurt and she refused, wouldn't she be effectively killing _him_ as well? How could Blaine put this choice in her hands? She looked up through tears, meeting Blaine's eyes, and he leaned forward again, taking her hands in his. "You love him too, don't you, Quinn?" he asked, his voice _pleading_, and she'd not heard such raw _desperation_ in a man before. They were still connected in the most intimate way possible, and she could feel the pain in his heart echoing through her soul, and it took her breath away. "Please? _Please_, save him! You don't even _know_ me; I'm not anything. We have to do this _now_, it has to be now while his soul is still close enough, while the death is still fresh enough to reach him; he hasn't crossed over yet, I can _feel_ it!"

His eyes were just as desperate as Kurt's were that morning…

—"_Promise me that you and I will make the right choice, not the easy one," Kurt whispered_.—

"No," Quinn said clearly, her heart splitting in two.

"'_No_?'" Blaine echoed, his eyes insanely wide. "You _can't_—"

This time, it was Quinn who took his head in hers and took him into her memories. She showed him _Kurt. _When he had accepted Rachel as his friend despite their animosity and apologised to her for his behaviour during the Finn incident. When he had gotten thrown into lockers for standing up for Tina during Gaga week, ignoring the danger to himself. When he had taken a slushie for his friends, letting Finn off of the hook. She showed him how Kurt had held her after she'd given up Beth, and how she'd told him the fairly traumatising memory of losing her virginity and the guilt the morning afterwards, how she'd prayed and prayed for something she could never get back again alone in the church the following morning, and how Kurt, in turn, had told her the entire story of the "Defying Gravity" debacle. She showed him Kurt overcoming his aversion of religion to go to church with Mercedes, just to make her feel better. Quinn showed Blaine every single memory she had of Kurt sacrificing his own happiness, and she showed him her memory of their conversation that morning.

"He _planned_ this," Blaine whispered, pulling back from her. They were both sobbing, their tears mingling and streaking like paint on a fresh canvas; it was painting an image of sorrow, but sorrow born from love. It was a darker beauty, but one that Quinn could appreciate just the same. "Every last step of it, so that I wouldn't…I couldn't…"

"He loved you," Quinn said simply, smiling through her tears. "He loved you _so_ much, Blaine. He said that he'd found a reason to believe, and I think that we both know what that was." Quinn reached back into the torrent of memories of the night that Blaine had imprinted within her, and found that final, transcendent light that had taken Kurt from both of them, and she bathed Blaine in the glow as he collapsed in sobs into her lap. Quinn was still, as she held Blaine, stroking her fingers through his curls the way that she had never gotten the chance to hold her daughter. She poured love through her fingers, letting her tears drip onto his face like a healing rain.

It had _hurt_, saying no – like scraping her heart over broken glass. She _loved_ Kurt like the little brother that she had never had. But weighing the decisions over, she'd looked at her friend. He was dead, gone, on the floor, but on his still face was a look of such…_peace_. And Quinn had realised that she had seen that look once before, on the face of her grandmother. Grandmother Fabray had been more than 90 years old when she finally passed on in her sleep. They had tried not to let Quinn, who had been twelve at the time, see the body, but it hadn't horrified the little girl at the time: she'd seen her grandma, her lips curved slightly in a secretive smile, her body relaxed, no traces of dementia or arthritis pain marring her face. Quinn hadn't feared death, and in the end, neither had Kurt.

Kurt wouldn't have _wanted_ her to bring him back, just because she and Blaine were selfish in their love of him and couldn't imagine a world without him in it. It hadn't been her choice to make: Kurt had made it for both of them, and it was the _right_ choice.

She held Blaine while he wept, while that awful, awful night stretched into the predawn hours, as the school began to awaken around them from the strange sleep that had descended upon it. Soon the real world would intrude, and Quinn imagined that there would be so much to face upon meeting it. She had no idea what the future would hold, but she knew that she was alive, and that she could love again, and that was a miracle that Kurt had given her. The brilliant light of dawn broke through the night, the sun illuminating the world around her like fire, and for just one second Quinn could have sworn she heard a beautiful, beautiful song through the room.

One last tear descended down her cheek to land over Blaine's heart, and he finally slept. Quinn looked down when he moved fitfully, and her heart went into her throat when his hand moved across the floor, away from her. His hand clasped Kurt's, their fingers entangled, and Blaine found rest.

A small smile curved her lips.

_And so, if you care to find me—look to the western skies!_

_As someone told me lately: everyone deserves a chance to fly!_

_And if I'm flying solo—at least I'm flying free!_

_To those who'd ground me, take a message back from me!_

_Tell them how I am defying gravity!_

_I'm flying high, defying gravity!_

_And soon I'll match them in renown!_

_And nobody in all of Oz—no Wizard that there is or was_

_Is ever going to bring me down!_

—from "Defying Gravity", from _Wicked_

"I was _happy_. Wherever I was, I was…_happy_. At peace. I knew that everyone I cared about was alright. I _knew_ it. Time…didn't _mean_ anything; nothing had form—but I was still _me_, you know? And I was warm, and I was loved, and I was…finished. Complete. I don't understand about theology or dimensions or…any of it, really. But…I think that I was in Heaven."

—from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season Six, Episode Three—"Afterlife""


End file.
